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Copyright, 1902, by Mabel Clare Craft. 



Oakland, Calif. 

Frbss of Thk Oaklamd Triruwk 

1902 



THE LIBRARY OF 
COKGRESS, 

Two Copieo Receivec! 

JAN 22 1903 

Copyiih;n' tntry 
CLASS ^ XXc. No. ^Q 

COPY B. j ^^C\ 



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REV. PETER MUHLENBERG 

NOAH SUTTON 

LIEUT. DANIEL HURLBUT 

GOULD LEWIS 

GEN. GEORGE WASHINGTON 

SILAS CROUCH 

OLD LEWIS 

DOROTHY SUTTON 

MRS. SUTTON 

ESTHER HURLBUT 

MRS. HURLBUT 

MRS. LEWIS 
Revolutionary soldiers, sentries, a squad of British soldiers, a 
British and a Continental sergeant, small boys, children, Tory 
men and women, patriotic men and women, an old man (the bell- 
ringer.) 



ACT I. 



Interior of the house of Noah Sutton at Norrlstown, a few 
miles from Valley Forg-e. Time, October, 1777. Noah Sutton, a 
member of the Pennsylvania Militia, has been fighting with 
Washington, but has returned home, after being wounded. He 
is anxious to be well and wild to be off again to rejoin Washing- 
ton. The scene of the first act is in the dining room of the 
Sutton homestead., a comfortable house on the outskirts of the 
town. The Suttons are well off and the room is furnished with 
substantial Colonial mahogany. As the curtain rises, Dorothy 
Sutton, a pretty girl of nineteen or twenty, is setting the table 
for the evening meal. A moment after, the outside door opens, 
and Noah Sutton comes into the room. 

DOROTHY (running towards her father). 

Any news, father? 

MR. SUTTON. 

Yes. A mounted man passed the cross roads this noon 
and stopped at Hurlbut's for a fresh horse. They met 
again at German town — 

DOROTHY. 

And we won? 

SUTTON, (fiercely). 

No, we didn't: curse it. The man said it was Wash- 
ington's fault, but I don't believe it — some blithering 
young idiot that Congress has been making an ofHcer, 
I'll be bound — 

DOROTHY (significantly). 

Or else Gates was somewhere about. 

SUTTON. 
The messenger was on his way with despatches to 
Congress. (With a sob.) We lost almost 700 men, and 
400 more made prisoners. A few more meetings like this 
and we'll have no army left. 

(Mrs. Sutton enters. She is a comely matron with a white 
cap and pretty grey hair, and though a patriot, does not share 
the ardor of her husband and daughter.) 



DOROTHY. 

But the British, father — surely the General made them 
suffer? 

SUTTON. 

Only 500 killed and wounded together, the messenger 
said, and they have a whole nation to draw on. 

DOROTHY (hotly). 

Then why do they have to hire these Hessian brutes 
if their countrymen at home are so wonderfully brave and 
so anxious to flight us? 

(Sutton sinks into a chair and drops his head in his hands. 
Dorothy, running up to him, pats his shoulder.) 

DOROTHY (cheerfully). 
Don't daddie. You'll see. Washington is planning 
something. Don't you remember how discouraged we were 
before Trenton? It'll be all right. You'll see. Washington 
is always right. 

MRS. SUTTON (peevishly). 
But he's so slow. Why doesn't he do something before 
all his men are dead? That's what I'd like to know. He 
always waits until his soldiers are scattered and then he 
does something that brings them all back. 

DOROTHY. 

For shame, mother. 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Well, I'm thankful you weren't there. Noah, anyhow. 

SUTTON (fiercely). 
Well, I'll be there next time. My wound's all right 
now, and I'm going back, I tell you — 

MRS. SUTTON. 

You'll do nothing of the sort, Noah. You must wait 
'till spring, at least. You can do no good this winter, and 
Dorothy and I — 

DOROTHY. 
Oh, to be a man for a year. Father, you must go 
back — 

SUTTON. 
Of course I'm going. Every man is needed now — 

MRS. SUTTON (tearfully). 
What good can one man do? 

SUTTON. 

That's what they all think, and Hurlbut says the New 

6 



Jersey men are deserting right and left. Every man whose 
paltry little three months have expired, straightway goes 
home — 
(He paces up and down the room.) . 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Well, if they only signed for three months, I don't 
see — 

SUTTON. 

Oh, you don't understand. If we were all as selfish as 
that, we'd soon have no country to fight for. 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Noah! 
(The door opens and Hurlbut enters. He is a young fellow, 
scarcely 22. He wears the blue and buff of a Continental lieu- 
tenant, for he is home on furlough for a few days.) 

HURLBUT. 

Good evening, friends. Bad news from the front, sir, 
isn't it? 

SUTTON (gloomily). 
Yes. What's to be done next? 
HURLBUT. 
Heaven knows. They say the General isn't discour- 
aged, but everybody else is. 

DOROTHY (hotly). 
A 'bad time to be taking a furlough, I should think. 

HURLBUT (apologetically). 
Well, Dorothy, you know I had to come home. I go 
back to my regiment at the most in a day or two. 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Dorothy, you are most uncivil. 
DOROTHY. 

Well, if I were a man no power on earth should keep 
me away at this time. The General needs every man. even 
boys — (looking at Hurlbut.) 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Oh, well; we lived before under King George, and I 
daresay we can manage again — 

SUTTON. 

Never! My ancestors fled to Holland to escape the 
Charleses, and we'll move on again if necessary — out be- 
yond the frontier, or into French territory. I'll never be 
an English subject again, so help me God. 



MRS. SUTTON. 

Well, don't get excited about it. You'll feel different 
when the time comes. I'll go to no frontier. I'm Eng- 
lish. 

SUTTON (fumes impotently). 

Polly, you sometimes exasperate me beyond endur- 
ance. I tell you I'll never live under King George again — 
damn him. 

DOROTHY (wickedly). 
Oh, if Parson Peter could hear you now! 

SUTTON. 
Well, he can't. I'm getting sick of his Tory leanings. 
He and the Lewises ought to be helped out of town on a 
rail. 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Noah, I'm surprised at you. And at you, too, Dorothy. 
"Parson Peter" is very disrespectful from a young girl. 
You don't know the rector, do you. Dan'l ? He came since 
you went away. He's a very handsome young man of ex- 
cellent family — his mother was an English woman — of 
good family, too. He was brought up in England, and so, 
of course — 

HURLBUT. 

I hear he's a very fine fellow. 

MRS. SUTTON (with the admiration of a Colonial). 

W Yes, he is a fine fellow, and college-eddicated. I think 
" he admires Dorothy. 

HURLBUT. 
Oh, I spoke too soon. 

DOROTHY. 
Well, he'd best keep his admiration to himself. I'll be 
civil to no Tory. 

SUTTON. 
Good for you, Dorothy. What a pity it was a girl. 

DOROTHY (bitterly). 

Well, you can't regret it half so much as I do, father. 
Suppose you had to sit and spin and weave and sew (vic- 
iously) while every ner\^e in you was throbbing with the 
desire to carry a flintlock and — 

(A knock on the door. Dorothy opens it to admit Muhlenberg 
and Gould Lewis. Both are young men. Muhlenberg wears the 
dress of a clergyman of t>ie English Church. Lewis is dressed 
in the butternut clothes of the well-to-do farmer. Both are 
young men, Muhlenberg perhaps 25 to 30, Lewis 19 to 20.) 



MUHLENBERG. 

Good evening, Mrs. Sutton. Good evening, Miss Dor- 
othy. 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Good evening, sir. I think you do not know Lieuten- 
ant Hurlbut? He is one of your parishioners, sir. 

MUHLENBERG, (eying the young Colonial critically). 
I know your father well, sir. You are not afraid of 
showing your colors. I see. 

HURLBUT. 
No man need be ashamed of these colors, sir. 

DOROTHY. 
I never liked you half so well before, Daniel. 
MRS. SUTTON. 

Mercy on us! I'm so sick of this war talk. Let's talk 
of something else, for pity's sake. How's your mother, 
Gould? 

LEWIS. 

Quite well, Mrs. Sutton, thanks. Molly's going to Phil- 
adelphia in a few days, though, to visit her friends, the 
Spooners. They say Howe will winter there, and there 
will be gay doings. Molly's fond of skylarking, you know. 
You'd like to see her new dresses, Dorothy. 

DOROTHY (with her nose in the air). 

Oh, homespun's good enough for me. Master Lewis, 
while our men are suffering for everything. (Wistfully) 
I expect Molly's things are pretty, though. I would come 
over to see them, but I'm afraid we'd quarrel. We disa- 
gree on everything now\ 

LEWIS. 

Well, father says he hopes the war will go right on. 
It makes good markets and high prices. 

SUTTON. 

Oh, yes, Gould, as long as your father can sell his pro- 
duce down the river to the British, Miss Molly will have 
plenty of finery, no doubt. 

LEWIS. 

The last time they never asked him how much he 
wanted, but just poured his hat full of gold — 

SUTTON. 

Well, I'd be ashamed to own it. Judas Iscarlot sold 
hl»— 



MUHLENBERG. 

Friends, friends — 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Noah, your temper gets very bad. Gentlemen, draw up 
your chairs to the table. It's a very modest supper. I'd 
be glad to have peace if only for the sake of a good cup of 
tea, for Noah won't let me — 

DOROTHY. 

Mercy, mother, I'd rather drink artichoke leaves for- 
ever than to pay them a tax on tea — 

(The door bursts open and Esther Hurlbut rushes in. She 
is but seventeen. Her hair streams out behind her, and her 
bonnet is hanging by its strings. Everyone jumps up.) 

ESTHER. 

Dan'l, Dan'l, father says to come home at once. The 
British have crossed the river and the fleet is attacking 
the forts. The General has sent out mounted men to 
rouse the country. I'm going on to West Chester to warn 
the minute men. They'll have to look out for the stores, 
for they say Fort Mercer's sure to fall. The Hessians are 
on the other side. Darby's almost dead on his feet. Can 
I have the roan, Dan'l? 

HURLBUT. 

Indeed you can't. I'll want her myself. I must go 
back to-night. 

ESTHER. 

Will you lend me a horse then, Mr. Sutton? 

SUTTON. 

I wish I could, Esther, but I've lent everyone of them 
except Dolly to our men, and I shall want Dolly myself 
to-night to get to Washington. 

MRS. SUTTON (appealingly). 
Oh, father. 
(Mrs. Sutton clings to her husband, and Dorothy gives Hurl- 
but her hand for a moment.) 

MRS. SU1 rON (crying, while her husband pats her back) 

I do try to be brave, Noah. I know you think I don't. 
But it's the hard labor of waiting while you go in search 
of danger. My husband, oh my husband. 

DOROTHY (also throwing her arms around her father). 

The woman's part is the terrible waiting: That is 
some of Eve's curse, I suppose. But we've something to 
think about, too, mother. We can help Washington, you 
know. 

10 



MUHLENBERG. 

We who must stay at home will try to look after 
them, Mr. Sutton. 
ESTHER HURLBUT (running to and from the veranda 
windows). 
Huh, you can't do anything. They shot Betsy Ward's 
husband down the road — right over her shoulder— he was 
sick in bed, too. Sometimes a man's not much better than 
a woman. 

DOROTHY. 
Oh, poor Betsy! And all the little children. That 
was a brave thing to do (looking at Muhlenberg) to shoot 
a sick man. 

SUTTON (unwinding his wife's arms). 
We'll be caught like rats in a trap if we don't hurry. 
Come on Hurlbut. 
(Chorus of goodbyes.) 

(Sutton and Hurlbut grasp their guns and hurry out. The 
others watch them from the windows.) 

ESTHER (almost in tears). 
But I'm losing time, and I must have a horse. Oh 
what shall I do? (Turning to Gould) Gould, lend me 
yours? 

GOULD LEWIS. 
Not much. What under the sun would father say If 
I did — to warn West Chester! Well, I'll bet I wouldn't 
be too big to get a licking. 

ESTHER (tartly). 
Very well, sir. So a licking's the worst thing you can 
think of. Mr. Muhlenberg, I'm afraid I'll have to appeal 
to you. It's only a loan, you know. 

MUHLENBERG (hesitating). 

You're a brave girl. Miss Esther, and I don't like to 
seem discourteous, ibut — 

(Dorothy has been signaling to Esther, who was too excited 
to see her. Esther goes over to her. They talk an instant.) 

ESTHER. 

Really I'm very much obliged to you. The messenger 
thought it was important to have the militia turn out, but 
everybody here seems to think his own plans too import- 
ant. My, but men are unselfish. Wish you had a horse 
to lend me, Dorothy. Well, Darby'll have to struggle 
along, that's all — I'll get to West Chester to-night if I have 
to go on my knees every foot of the way. Goodby. Mister 
Gould Lewis and Mr. Muhlenberg. 

11 



(She laughs in the parson's face and runs out of the door. 
The men start to follow her.) 

DOROTHY. 
Oh, Mr. Muhlenberg, there is something I wanted to 
say to you. 
(He turns toward her, his face lighting up.) 

MRS. SUTTON (to Lewis). 
I want to send some of my last baking to your 
mother, Gould. Your father and Mr. Sutton are bad 
friends, but your mother and I don't forget that we were 
brought up together. 
(They leave the stage talking together.) 

MUHLENBERG. 

What is it. Miss Dorothy? 

DOROTHY (looking up at him roguishly). 

Nothing, except that you'll have to ride Darby home, 
Mr. Muhlenberg, for unless I'm mightily mistaken, that 
witch, Esther Hurlbut, has borrowed your horse. 

MUHLENBERG. 

God! (He runs to the window.) 

DOROTHY. 

Don't be profane, Mr. Muhlenberg, it ill fits your 
cloth. She won't ride him to death. She had to have him. 
And if you want to blame anyone, give me my share, for 
I told her to take him. There's more at stake than any 
man's property. 

MUHLENBERG (biting his lip). 

I should have thought of that. The chit will be thrown 
off and killed. He's a wild young nag. 

DOROTHY. 

Oh don't you bother about that. We don't ride to 
hounds in this country because we don't believe that any 
man has a right to ride over any other man's land, but 
Esther can ride better than you ever dared to. 

MUHLENBERG. 

I know you all ride well — women as well as men. Well 
I hope she won't get killed, that's all. I'd rather have her 
warn West Chester than have her hurt. 

Really, that's very good of you, Mr. Muhlenberg. We 

DOROTHY (mockingly sweeping him a courtesy). 

rebels appreciate your willingness to lend your horse to 
our cause. 

12 



MUHLENBERG. 

Don't you think you're a bit hard on me, Mistress 
Dorothy? I can't help my ancestry and my bringing up. 
You've no idea how hard this is for me. I'm pulled both 
ways. 

DOROTHY. 
Yes, and it's easy to see which side pulls the harder. 
MUHLENBERG. 

Dorothy, you're always hurting me nowadays. If you 
loved me even a little you'd not be forever reminding 
me that this wretched business is between us. 

DOROTHY. 

I love no King's man, sir. 

MUHLENBERG. 

You never consider for a moment the way I'm torn — 
Church, mother, tradition and education on one side — you 
and my birthright and more than half my parishioners 
on the other. God, but I'd give years of my life to see the 
right of this. 

DOROTHY (sarcastically). 

I shouldn't think it was so hard to see the right. It's 
always pleasanter on the winning side. But you needn't 
think, sir, because we've lost all this summer and fall 
that we're going to lose in the end. If we lose there'll 
not be a single one of us alive to mourn over it. 
(She bursts into tears.) 

MUHLENBERG (too much excited to try to calm her). 

Every night when I lie down I fight this battle out 
again in my soul, and every morning when I get up there 
is the same old problem ready to begin the day with me. 
What ought I to do? My God, I have prayed over this 
thing until I am sick of it, and I presume the Diety is, 
too, but I get no sign. My heart is divided down the mid- 
dle and one half of it is with the blue and buff and you, 
and the other half with my Church, my mother, and my 
king. Dorothy, can't you understand the vows I took 
when I became a priest of the Church of England, the tra- 
ditions of my English College, and my allegiance to my 
king? Thank heaven, my mother never lived to see this 
day, but she knows, Dorothy, and I can't have her dis- 
appointed in her son. 

DOROTHY (with dignity). 

I don't know why you are telling me this. A man's 
doubts are never pretty things. I assure you that these 

IS 



squirmings of your soul are not of the slightest interest 
to me. 

MUHLENBERG (as though he had not heard). 
And I please no one. Only the other day one of the 
Lewises called me a turncoat and accused me of dis- 
loyalty to King George because I could not pronounce 
Washington a traitor. I have always prayed for the 
judicial mind, but this ability to see both sides of a 
question is a fatal gift. It seems bound to make ship- 
wreck of my happiness. 

DOROTHY (softly). 
And of mine. 

MUHLENBERG. 

More light! More light! If I could but once bring 
myself to see that one side is wholly right, the other 
wholly wrong, I could turn my face to the right and 
never regret the consequences. 

DOROTHY. 

Oh, indeed? 

MUHLENBERG. 
Now. there's Washington. 

DOROTHY (fiercely). 
Don't you dare — 

MUHLENBERG. 

He thinks he's right and his courage is superb. But 
lots of good men have been mistaken. 

DOROTHY. 

Bad men have always said so. 

MUHLENBERG. 

And look at the Congress. There's surely nothing to 
respect there. They squabble and flgbt. And that time- 
server Gates may down Washington yet. There's no 
patriotism there. Most of them are patriots because 
they think it pays. 

DOROTHY. 

Oh, well, if you want to hide behind their skirts. Look 
here, it's easy to find arguments when the other side's 
winning. You're like all the rest of the Tories — you want 
to be on the side that'll win, and you make sure that 
your British regulars and your hired Hessians can put 
our farmers and shop-keepers to flight. Well, I shouldn't 
wonder if they could. It would be a poor tale if men who 
make a business of fighting couldn't. But I don't see that 
that makes any difference as to the right and the wrong 

14 



of the question. You've read our Declaration — you know 
it rings true in every line. You know why we're fighting- 
and you know about every drop of patriot blood that has 
been spilled. Who fired first on the minute men at Con- 
cord, that's what I'd like to know? You know we're right. 
Reverend Peter Muhlenberg, only your English stub- 
bornness and your stiff Church of England notions won't 
let you acknowledge that you're wrong. I should think 
your Dutch ancestors and your Dutch name would be 
ashamed of you, Peter Muhlenberg. I was brought up 
to love the name of England, and the Suttons were as 
good Englishmen as any of you, but I hate the very 
name of England now. The true Englishmen are the 
Americans, and you know it. Do you think we braved 
King John at Runnymede and cut off Charles' head to have 
the divine right of kings and taxation without represen- 
tation choked down our throats at this late day? Read 
your English history, Mr. Peter. And there's plenty of 
Englishmen in England who agree with me, too, I'll tell 
you. 

MUHLENBERG. 

You arch-pleader, you. An advocate was lost in you 
when you weren't a man. 

DOROTHY. 

O, yes, the country lost a good deal when I was con- 
demned to petticoats. But if I were a man I'd be doing 
something more Important than arguing with you, I'll 
tell you that. 

MUHLENBERG. 

But Dorothy, all this does not prevent me from lov- 
ing you. 

DOROTHY (saucily). 

But it prevents me from loving you, which is quite 
as important. 

MUHLENBERG (laughing). 
Do you think so? 

DOROTHY. 

Oh, quite, sir. I had rather marry Dan'l Hurlbut, 
who has asked me, and who is on our side, than the 
best Tory that ever walked. 

MUHLENBERG. 

But you don't love Hurlbut. I'm not exactly a Tory 
— certainly not the best one that ever walked — you'll not 
marry a man you don't love. 

DOROTHY. 

I'd rather marry a patriot that I didn't love than a 
Tory that I did — only, of course, I couldn't love a Tory. 

15 



MUHLENBERG. 

But I'm not a Tory. 

DOROTHY. 

Yes you are. Everybody who isn't with us is against 
us. Patrick Henry says so. Congress may not be pat- 
riotic, but we have our Patrick Henrys and our Adamses 
as against your fine King George. 

MUHLENBERG. 

I hate a woman talking politics. Coming back to 
the question of loving. You must marry somebody. 

DOROTHY. 

I don't admit it. Father says he doesn't care — that 
I'm different from other girls. 

MUHLENBERG. 

That's true enough. But this war can't last always. 
Unless the English win quickly, the men at home will be 
tired of paying taxes. I know them. And afterward, 
Dorothy, come be my rebel. 

DOROTHY. 

Never, sir. Love me, love my country and my cause. 

MUHLENBERG (playfully). . 
Love me, love my country and my king. 

DOROTHY (angrily). 
Do you want me to hate you. 

MUHLENBERG. 
But, Dorothy, consider — if you cannot be consistent. 

DOROTHY (snappishly). 
Only fools are consistent. 

MUHLENBERG. 

You have your mother's temper. 

DOROTHY. 

You're not obliged to endure it, sir. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Oh, come, come. Be a little patient with me. I'm try- 
ing to be a neutral. God knows it's hard enough. Don't 
you know that I ran away from college to join the 
dragoons and only came back to please my father? I 
love a fight. But I'm a clergyman — I must minister to 
my flock, and I have sheep as well as goats, you know, 
Dorothy — to say nothing about spitfires. It is the place 
of a man of God to belong to neither side — 



DOROTHY. 

fudge! You'll try to be politic and carry water on 
both shoulders, and you'll end by having both sides 
hating you. You might as well make up your mind that 
everybody won't like you. Choose whom you want for 
friends, and let the others go. 

MUHLENBERG. 

That sounds well, but here am I — on the one side 
church and mother and college and country — and on the 
other side you — you that I love. I simply cannot take 
sides, Dorothy, though heaven knows it's hard enough for 
one of my temper. But I must have you. 

DOROTHY. 

No. No neutrals for me. How can you see our men, 
without the clothes, without the food, the guns, the powder 
they ought to have, fighting so splendidly for a principle 
which is the cause of Liberty itself, and then urge your 
Church, your family, your college, as reasons for not 
joining tliem? No sir — Dorothy Sutton marries no traitor 
to liberty — not now nor at any other time. I'd rather be 
a spinstei' (making a little grimace) to the end of my 
days and keep a dame's school where I shall teach little 
patriots of the glorious days of '77, and the triumphant 
ones of '78 — I verily believe. Oh, I shall be a great his- 
tory teacher, and then you'll be sorry. Neutral indeed— 
you're a weather cock, now bowing to this breeze, now 
to that. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Almost thou persuadest me, Dorothy. But then we'd 
agree on everything and there'd be nothing to quarrel 
about. 

DOROTHY. 

Oh, there'd be plenty to quarrel about. But do you 
really want to be convinced? 

MUHLENBERG. 

Before Grod, I do. My heart is all your way. I feel as 
though I were falling between two stools. I'm neither one 
thing nor the other. 

DOROTHY. 
Poor man, and you admit it. 

MUHLENBERG. 

1 want to win you, Dorothy, but more than that I want 
to be right. 

DOROTHY. 
That's the spirit; I like you better now. 

17 



MUHLENBERG. 

On the Judgment Day I want to be able to say that 
I answered the call of my conscience. 

DOROTHY (very happy now). 
The Judgment Day's a long way off — the worst thing 
about it will be its publicity. 

MUHLENBERG. 

How do you mean? 

DOROTHY. 

Oh stupid — anyone would know you were German and 
English — the secrets of all hearts are to be revealed, of 
course. 

MUHLENBERG (smiling). 

And are you afraid of having yours known? 
DOROTHY. 

Oh, we shall all be too busy trying to hide our own 
nakedness to notice the disclosures of our neighbors. But, 
don't you see. the Tories will find out how we Colonials 
reinforced our army — by making men fall in love with us 
first and converting them afterward — but it'll be too late 
for them to make use of it then. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Oh, you are too clever for a woman. 

DOROTHY. 

Another thing for us to quarrel about! Hark! (runs 
to window.) There go the West Chester militia down the 
river road (with a sob) Esther must have ridden like the 
wind. And toward the enemy too. Brave little girl! 
(A boy 'bursts in the door. His eyes are wide with terror. 
He has no hat, and his long hair stands out from his head. He 
yells shrilly, 

BOY. 
Run, run for your lives. The British are not a mile 
down the road, burning and sacking as they go. 
(He runs out. The audience can hear his shrill shouts as he 
tears past the window.) 

(Mrs. Sutton and Gould Lewis rush in.) 

LEWIS. 

What's that? 

DOROTHY. 

The British are coming and the farm houses are burn- 
ing. (To Muhlenberg.) That's fine warfare. They'll be 
setting the Indians on us next. 

18 



LEWIS (grabbing his hat). 
I must go. Father's down in the wood lot and not a 
man about the place. 

(He rushes out.) 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Dorothy, the stores, the stores! 

DOROTHY (in a fearful voice). 

Mother. Hush! 

MUHLENBERG. 
Come with me to the church. They won't molest that. 
MRS. SUTTON (breathlessly). 

Yes. Dorothy. 

DOROTHY. 

NO. I Shall stay here. You go with Mr. Muhlenberg. 

'"°''^'" MUHLENBERG. 

And leave you here alone? Nonsense. 

MRS. SUTTON (almost in tears). 
Do come, Dorothy. What does anything matter but 
our own safety. dqROTHY. 

something matters a great deal. There is one thing 
a woman can do in wartime-be true to her trust. Stay 
or go, as you like, mother. I stay here. 

MRS SUTTON (taking off her bonnet and cloak, which 
she has been tying on). 
Then I stay, too. of course. 

MUHLENBERG. 
And I, but we'd have been better off at the church. 

DOROTHY. 

R„t I Wish you to go. Mr. Muhlenberg. There is that 

to do wiich ^voman's^it can accomplish better wihout 

r man's interference. Please trust ->^ ^^^^.^^J^^^ Jj^'^. 

sweetly). I can't explain, but I'm surely right. Please go. 

MUHLENBERG. 

This is awful. I should feel like a coward running 

^^^^- DOROTHY. 

well, you're not. You're only a man not in a secret. 
Some day I'll tell you. 

MUHLENBERG (going). 
Goodbye. God bless and keep you both^ I'll be out 
again in a little. I must know how you fare. 

19 



(Dorothy and Mrs. Sutton put the room to rights quickly. 
They remove powder horns and a picture of General Washing- 
ton, and then sit down at the table. At the same moment a voice 
is heard outside shouting- the order, '"Surround the House; fall 
in." The door is opened from without to show a British sergeant 
with a squad of British regulars behind him.) 

SERGEANT. 

Good evening, dames. Sorry to disturb you, but we 
must search your house. 

(Mrs. Sutton and Dorothy rise and courtesy during this 
speech. 

DOROTHY. 

We are all loyalists hoi-c. You may search an' wel- 
come, sir. 

SERGEANT. 
W'luTc arc all yom- men folks'.' 

DOROTHY. 

My mother is a widow, sir, and I'm her only child. 
The servants are the only men about the place, and not 
many of them. Will you search, sir? 

(The sergeant glances about the room, and, preceded by 
Dorothy, opens doors to right and left. One door he overlooks.) 

DOROTHY. 

Will you go above stairs? 
(Sergeant motions to two of his men. who go upstairs.) 

DOROTHY (coyly). 
But there soon will be a man about the house, sir. for 
I"m to be married. 
(Mrs. Sutton looks amazed.) 

SERGEANT. 

I'm sure he's nuuh to be envied, miss. I hope as he's 
worthy. 

DOROTHY. 
He certainly is. He's an English gentleman. 

SERGEANT. 
Indeed, miss. 

DOROTHY. 
May I offer you a cup of tea? We're on rather short 
rations, like everyone else — money's so scarce — but we 
shall be selling stores to your army now, we hope. Oh. 
you've no idea how glad we are you've come. I can't tell 
you how we feel about it. 
(She pours the tea. The men return.) 

20 



THE MEN. 

Nothing there, sir. 
(Mrs. Sutton serves them tea in an outer room.) 

SERGEANT (between mouthfuls). 
We didn't go into the front room. 
DOROTHY. 

No, I have in that room my bridal clothes and would 
rather not show it, but if you insist, I shall certainly let 
you see it. 

SERGEANT (looking at her fixedly). 

I believe you. I'll not look at the room. Good night. 
(He goes out with his men. Dorothy courtesies, then drops into 
a chair.) 

MRS. SUTTON. 
Well, you beat me. You took my breath away. 

DOROTHY. 
Thank God, he believed me. 

MRS. SUTTON. 
Oh, you could always twist the men around your 
fingers. In Salem they'd have burned you for a witch. 

DOROTHY (laughing happily). 

What a flatterer you are motherkins. 
(The door opens suddenly. The sergeant, very red, stands on 
the threshold. He walks straight to the door that was omitted, 
opens it and disappears within. Two soldiers follow him. Dorothy 
drops her head into her arms with a cry.) 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Who could have betrayed us? 
DOROTHY. 

You did — to Peter Muhlenberg. 
(Muhlenberg enters the room hastily as the sergeant and the 
soldiers appear from the front room, their arms full of muskets.) 

SERGEANT. 

Fine bridal clothes, these! 

MUHLENBERG. 

Doiothy, I had to come. I couldn't — 

DOROTHY. 

How dare you speak to me? You're no turncoat — 
you're a traitor. 

MUHLENBERG. 
What do you mean? Before God — 

21 



DOROTHY. 

Oh, don't take the trouble to deny it. Who'd believe 
a traitor? May God punish you for the deed you've done 
this day. 

(CURTAIN.) 



ACT IL 



The Camp at Valley Forge. The Revolutionary army in 
winter quarters. Time, the middle of February, 1778. Huts of 
soldiers are all around. They are made of logs, filled with moss, 
with rough stone chimneys. Snow falls at intervals during this 
act. Smoke goes up from some of the huts, and late in the act 
as twilight comes on, lights glimmer here and there. Back of the 
hut's is the forest; at one side of the stage is a small open camp 
fire. A sentry paces to and fro. His feet and legs are swathed 
in rags. Muhlenberg and Mrs. Sutton enter from the right, closely 
followed by Dorothy and Esther Hurlbut. All are muffled to the 
ears, wearing furs and tippets. Their hands are mittened and 
sunk in muffs, and they have baskets of provisions on their 
arms. 

ESTHER. 
And you've not spoken to him since? 

DOROTHY. 
Never when I could avoid it. 

ESTHER. 
Did you ever ask him why he did it? 

DOROTHY. 
Of course not. Do you think I have no pride? Father 
doesn't know yet — about the stores. And oh, our men 
needed them so sorely, and they were gone — eaten and 
worn out and shot up by those nasty, greedy Redcoats. 

ESTHER. 

And you never doubted he was the informer? 

22 



DOROTHY. 

'Twas as plain as a pikestaff. Who else, pray, knew? 
(During this colloquy Muhlenberg and Mrs. Sutton have been 
looking into various huts. They do not find whom they seek.) 

MUHLENBERG (to the sentry). 
Can you tell us where we'll find Noah Sutton of the 
Pennsylvania militia? 

SENTRY. 

Just over there. That hut in the middle. But he's 

very bad to-day. 

(Muhlenberg and the women go back and disappear within 
the log house. The sentry leaves the stage, returning at regu- 
lar intervals throughout the act.) 

(Enter two soldiers drawing a sled of firewood.) 

FIRST SOLDIER (halting to rest). 
Say, I'm awfully sick of all this. Ain't you? 
SECOND SOLDIER. 

'Tis pretty tough, ain't it, 'specially since the horses 
died. Haulin' wood's tougher'n pioneerin', ain't it? But 
the sick'd all freeze 'fore mornin' in this weather athout 
it. Oh what a wilderness! 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

Well, I can't see as it's our fault they're sick — I didn't 
sign to haul wood. 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

Nor I, neither, but 'tain't anybody's fault as I can see. 
The horses is dead and the wood's got to be hauled. 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

It ain't nobody's fault, heh? Why don't Congress send 
us horses and .somethin' to feed 'em with, heh? 

SECOND SOLDIER (with infinite scorn). 
Congress! Pooh, Congress's as derpreciated as the cur- 
rency. 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

Well, Washington's too slow, that's what's the matter. 
Now, if we had Gates. Jest see how quick he cleaned out 
Burgoyne. Gates is the boy. 

(Muhlenberg comes out of the hut during this speech 
and stands listening to the soldiers.) 

SECOND SOLDIER (laughing contemptuously). 

Oh, listen to you for a fool! You allays was a fool. 
Nahun. I 'spect you can't help it. Believe everything's 
told you, don't you? Why, Gates simply couldn't help 

23 



catchin' that Burgoyne feller. He'd a missed him if he 
could — allays did bungle everything. And who sent Gates 
men and crippled his own army to do it? Why, (triumph- 
antly) General Washington, o' course. 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

Well, how about Adams? He's from my State. 
Strike's me he'd do better'n Washington. 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

Oh that's it — every feller pull for his own State. That's 
what ails Congress. Adams (with infinite scorn) well, his 
tongue's all right, if he could fight with that, but, in my 
opinion, he's mean and jealous as a girl. 

MUHLENBERG (who has been graoually drawing nearer). 

That's a pretty good estimate of Adams, my friend — 
fights with his tongue. You've got lots of those fellows on 
your side. Their tongues are ready enough but their 
arms and their pockets — quite useless, I assure you. But 
tell me (quizzically) what think you of Howe as a general? 

FIRST SOLDIER (grinning). 

Howe? Oh he's just nothin' but a ba'r, sleeps all win- 
ter. He tried to get us to fight at Whitmarsh, 'but our 
general wouldn't. I wisht he had. 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

We wern't fit then, you fool. I'll tell you, Howe may 
be sleepin' but the American Revolution is ready to strike 
the instant he moves. This (with a sweeping gesture) Is 
the American Revolution. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Oh, is it? But the conquerors of Burgoyne have dis- 
persed to their homes. 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

All the more reason we should stay here and make ready 
for spring. Just wait 'till spring (spitting on his hands) 
when we get after them red coats. 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

Yes, wait 'till spring. We'll all be in nice straight 
rows long afore spring, only we'll be a-laying down in 
rows, 'stead o' standin' up. 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

Oh you was allays grumbling. You pestered the life 
out o' your wife — I'll bet she's glad you're shet up in win- 
ter quarters. 

24 



FIRST SOLDIER. 

Yes? Well, I'm tired o' havin' no pillow but jest a 
a knapsack. Why, on our march yistidday you could see 
every place we halted by the rags on the ground. Bill 
Leach's lost a toe — clean froze off. 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

Pooh, that's nothin'. Wonder he didn't lose his whole 
foot — he's that slow. 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

Aw, say now — 

MUHLENBERG (to second soldier). 

Well, you're certainly cheerful. If all the men are like 
you Washington'll come out all right. You don't look very 
warm, though. 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

Warm? Huh! These regimentals o' mine are more 
like rags than clothes. Why, I've rigged up better to 
frighten away the crows in the cornfield, many's 
the time. But that's nothing. Jest you wait 'till spring. 
Gee, but I want a shot at a Redcoat with my old Nancy. 
Jest you wait 'till spring. We'll show 'em. I love a fight 
and we'll have one then, for sure. It's waitin' that's hard. 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

Well, starvin's harder. I'd rather have a round o' beef 
than a round o' shot, any day. Famine ain't nothin' to 
laugh at as I can see. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Oh it surely isn't as bad as that. 

' SECOND SOLDIER. 

Don't you pay no attention to him. He's a growler, 
he is — a perfect b'ar. But our rations is certainly 
pretty short. We need shoes and clothes and blankets as 
bad as anything. You can mostly see where we've been 
treadin' by the blood on the snow. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Poor lads, what's your quartermaster thinking of? 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

That's jest it. You see they're tryin' to starve and 
freeze the heart out o' our General. They don't know him. 
It makes it kinder hard on the boys like Nahun here as 
likes good grub, for natcherly the freezin' and the starvin' 
falls on the men first. But they can't roil our General. 
If they'd give him a decent quartermaster, he'd give 'em 

26 



an army, and then they wouldn't have ITo . e roostin' warm 
and comfortable in their capital city. In my opinion — 
and many others think the same, I'll tell you — Congress 
is just a lot of old ninnies. It's might easy to draw up 
pertitions when you're sittin' in front o' a warm Are — 
but George's the boy. He knows what he's doin'. We 
may look like a lot o' old scarecrows, but we can drill 
all right. He's got an idea or two beliind those queer eyes 
o' his that kind a' burn you — whoever lives'll see it. 
Come on, Nahun. You'll lose more'n a toe if you don't 
move on. 

FIRST SOLDIER (crossly — he has been stamping and rub- 
bing his hands all through this speech). 

Who's doin' the talkin', old chatter-box? 

MUHLENBERG (musingly). 

It's a wonder the men don't desert. 

FIRST SOLDIER (eagerly). 

That's what I say — aesert to where there's good beef 
and pumpkin pie and — 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

^h hush up. Desert? Never — why only last week 
General Washington tied up my feet with his own com- 
forter. Desert? Not 'till this place is colder'n the North 
American woods in mid-winter, and I reckon they ain't 
no such place outside the hymnbook. Desert? May my 
feet freeze and drop off first. Come on, Nahun. They 
want this wood, and you'll get into trouble talkin' too 
much. Desert? Well I never — 

(They drag off the wood, the second soldier still fuming 
and talking. Muhlenberg follows them with his eyes in 
amused amazement.) 

MUHLENBERG. 

Well, that's the most unusual private soldier I've ever 
seen. They don't have that breed in Europe — an Amer- 
ican product, doubtless. What a difference from the 
dragoons. 

During the next dialogue the snow falls at intervals; little 
squads of soldiers cross the stage at the rear. Two soldiers 
cross dragging an empty sled, entering from the direction 
in which the others disappeared. One says "Damn Washington!" 
the other promptly knocks him down. He rolls over in the 
snow, but picks himself up and they go out dragging the sled 
and altercating fiercely. The sounds of distant men drilling 
are heard. Faint voices are shouting sharp, cnsp orders. The 
life of the camp goes busily on as the short winter day draws 
to its close. 

26 



Lieutenant Hurl-but enters. He looks pale and thin. He 
starts on seeing Muhlenberg. 

HURLBUT. 

Well, this is a surprise, sir. May I ask what you are 
doing here? 

MUHLENBERG. 
Oh, mere escort duty, Mr. Hurlbut. 

HURLBUT (a little bitterly). 
Few men have time for anything so pleasant these 
days. I'm surprised you care to be within our lines. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Well, I seemed to be the only man who could come with 
Miss Sutton and her mother. Your sister came, too, to 
see you. 

HURLBUT. 

Esther? Dear little girl! Dorothy's with her father, 
of course. (Starts toward the hut, then comes back.) 
You have just arrived? Then they want to be alone. 

MUHLENBERG. 

I thought so. 

HURLBUT. 

And my people. Are they well? 
MUHLENBERG. 

I believe so. I seldom see them now. My parish is 
sadly divided. Your family, for instance, seldom come 
to church now. They think I lean toward England. 

HURLBUT. 

Well, you do, do you not? 

MUHLENBERG. 
I have been accused of it, I believe. Yet the Lewises 
don't think me loyal enough, and they've left too. I was 
never in such a quandary in my life. 

HURLBUT (sneeringly). 
You don't seem to know your own mind any more than 
a woman. 

MUHLENBERG (significantly). 
The women I know know their own minds only too 
well. 

HURLBUT (brightening). 

Does she really? (Looks towards the hut.) 

MUHLENBERG. 

What she? 

27 



HURLBUT (confusedly). 

Oh, I don't know — any she. 

MUHLENBERG (musingly). 

Do you know, I can't think this war was necessary. 
It would all have adjusted itself in time. 

huKLBUT. 

This is an odd time to make that discovery. There 
would have been a Reformation without Luther then, I 
suppose? You pride yourself so on your Protestantism. 
You'd all have been Romanists then, and it would have 
been better — you could not have married. 

MUHLENBERG (ignoring the last remark). 
Still, you could have avoided force. 

HURLBUT. 

Aviod force! Didn't we wait until they thought us a 
pack of cowards? Who fired the first shot? And after 
Lexington were we to stalk around like sheep, to be 
butchered one by one as they wanted us. Oh, Mr. Muhl- 
enberg, be reasonable, if you are a parson. 

MUHLENBERG. 
Thank you. i. 

HURLBUT (listening to the sounds of distant drilling). 

This is an army in the making that you hear. 

MUHLENBERG. 
Oh, indeed. 

HURLBUT. 

Men say that His Excellency is a martinet, but if he 
carries any of these men alive through this awful winter 
he'll have an army — the first we've ever had. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Well, Gates made a pretty good showing. 
HURLBUT (scornfully). 

Gates! He couldn't help himself — the enemy made 
such blunders, and Washington lent the men. Why 
shouldn't he win? 

MUHLENBERG. 

Gates doesn't seem to be very popular here. Things 
are pretty bad in this camp, they tell me. 

HURLBUT. 

Bad? Why, it's hell! Those sleek, lazy, well-fed 
blatherskites in Congress, curse them, (I beg your pardon, 

28 



sir) are trying to starve us out. Well, just let them try. 
They're jealous of Washington — the devils — and some- 
times I think King George owns some of them. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Shouldn't wonder at all. I hear they're going to send 
a commission to investigate you. They think you have 
been overdrawing your privations. 

HURLBUT. 

Good God I Let them — the quicker the better. The 
half hasn't been told. It is a good deal easier to draw 
up remonstrances in a comfortable room by a good fire- 
side than to occupy a cold bleak hill and sleep under 
frost and snow, without clothes or blankets. Are they 
men that they have so little feeling for our naked and 
sick soldiers? For they are soldiers — these farmers and 
blacksmiths and small tradesmen of ours. Washington's 
soul is wrung by the sights he sees, but while he re- 
sents the injustice, it does not lessen his determination 
to win. 

MUHLENBERG. 

I've always thought of him as a fine Virginia gentle- 
man. 

I HURLBUT. 

We don't see that side of him — simply a man among 
men — tender, pitiful as a woman to those poor dogs, and 
you know the scum always rises to the top — that's the 
worst of a Republic. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Can Congress force him out? 

HURLBUT. 

He'll never go. 

MUHLENBERG. 

They say he has levied on the country hereabouts 
and there have been many complaints. 

HURLBUT. 

He was forced to do it. He can't stop for trifles. Good 
God, man, we have 5000 sick — do you know what that 
means? 
(Enter sergeant in charge of a foraging party.) 

SERGEANT (saluting Lieut. Hurlbut, and holding up a pair 
of very thin chickens). 
Sorry to have to report such bad luck, sir; but the 
country's been scoured for miles around— nothing but 
these and a couple of pigs, and a few frozen potatoes. 

29 



(The men in the foraging party are exceedingly cadaverous- 
looking. Their clothes are in rags and their feet tied up in 
sacks. They carry sacks, w^hich are evidently almost empty.) 

HURLBUT (to Muhlenberg). 
God — and on this I've got to feed a hundred men — 
and half of them sick. That'll do, Hicks. Did you go as 
far as the ford? 

SERGEANT. 
Three miles beyond, sir, until it came on to snow, 
and the men could go no further, sir — they were too 
weak to travel against the storm. 
(The foraging party retires.) 

HURLBUT (gloomily). 

My poor fellows — what shall I do? They waver like 
drunken men on the march. They're too weaK to walk, 
and they have no proper clothes. 

MUHLENBERG. 

No wonder you are reduced to foraging. 
HURLBUT. 

Foraging? Why, man, do you know that for two weeks 
the well have had nothing to eat but flour mixed with 
water? It was fried to-day; sometimes we bake it. 
Scurvy's broken out among the men. I fancy we'd none 
of us stand it very long but for His Excellency. 

MUHLENBERG. 

How can the sick get well, how can men drill eight 
hours a day, as I hear you've been doing, to say nothing 
of building these houses and hauling wood on such a 
ration? 

HURLBUT (laughing harshly). 

They can't; but you sleek fellows at home don't care 
about that. I'm weak as a cat; Sutton would have been 
dead weeks ago, but for the soup from the headquarters' 
table — that's why we worship him — that's why we'd die 
for Washington. 

MUHLENBERG. 

God himself couldn't cure a sick man on flour and 
water by anything short of a miracle. 

HURLBUT (bitterly). 

There are no more miracles, though Washington ex- 
ceeds the wonder of the loaves and the fishes every day. 

MUHLENBERG. 

I should think he would lose all heart, fighting against 

30 



the selfishness of his country, the elements, famine, dis- 
ease, death. Where does he get his wondrous faith? 

HURLBUT. 

His faith! Why, where you preachers tell us to get 
ours. Many a time I've seen him down there in the woods, 
kneeling and praying — you can guess for what. He's the 
best Christian I've ever known. When we get through 
with the British I hope there'll be a bayonet sharp enough 
far a fat capon or two of a so-called patriot — the Con- 
gressional kind. 

DOROTHY (coming out of the hut. She holds out both 

hands to Hurlbut, who takes them joyously.) 

Dan'l, Esther is dying to see you. She's with mother. 

Mr. Muhlenberg, mother wants the basket of cordials 

from the cutter. She says do you mind getting it for her? 

MUHLENBERG. 

Not at all. 
(He goes.) 

HURLBUT. 

Oh but it's good to see you, Dorothy. (Reproachfully) 
You've written so seldom. 

DOROTHY. 

Well, letters don't get through and writing's harder 
for me than talking, and Esther sends you all the news, 
anyhow. Nothing ever happens with us. Even the Brit- 
ish never come our way — except that one awful time. Give 
me a piece of wood. (She runs over and knocks on wood 
three times to counteract her boasting). I don't want to 
repeat that experience. 

HURLBUT. 

But I like to get your stiff little pen scratches. I know 
then that you were at least thinking of me when you 
wrote. But why one should address one's life-long play- 
fellow as "Esteemed Friend" I can't for the life of me 
make out. 

(He takes out a letter carefully folded, from his inside left 
breast pocket, unwraps it carefully and reads.) 

Esteemed Friend Daniel, 

We are all very well, and mother sends her 
compliments, also some jam. The black cow has a calf, 
and the weather remains sharp and cold. Tour family 
was in best of health when last seen. Pray present my 
compliments to your Colonel, and permit me to sign 
myself — 
(Dorothy clutches for the paper, but he is too quick for her.) 

31 



DOROTHY. 

Oh faugh, I think that's a very nice proper letter for 
a young lady to write to a rising young officer. I think of 
you often, of course. How could I help it with dear 
father here? How bad he looks. Dan'l. 

HURLBUT. 

Yes, but he's much better now. 1 m glad you didn't see 
him a fortnight ago, though I tried hard to get word to 
you to come. The roads were blocked with snow; it was 
awful weather, but we thought we were going to lose him, 
and that unless you came then you would not see him 
again. 

DOROTHY. 

Dear father. It was simply his determination to live 
to help Washington that kept him alive. I never can 
thank you for all you did. You see we know that you gave 
him all your blankets and most of your food, and watched 
over him yourself. You're a good boy, Dan'l, and a kind 
nurse. 

HURLBUT. 

Well, it wasn't all for your sake, Dorothy. I have al- 
ways loved and admired your father. I should have liked 
someone to looik after mine in a similar case. We young 
chaps can stand this and only get a bit peaked and hag- 
gard — but it's death on the old ones. Many and many a 
one we've carried out — splendid old fellows, too, and full 
of courage, but they just couldn't stand it, and oh, Dorothy, 
we need them all. 

DOROTHY. 

Oh what a pity Esther and I can't join you. We're 
stronger than the old men anyhow. But I can never 
thank you enough for your care of my father. 

HURLBUT. 

You needn't thank me at all — just don't love anybody 
else if you can't love me. That's all I ask. 

DOROTHY (laughing). 
Is that all? Well, I don't love anyone else. Some- 
times I think I hate every man. 

HURLBUT. 

Even the parson? 

DOROTHY. 

The parson, particularly. Hasn't Esther told you? 

HURLBUT (eagerly). 
Told me what? Is there anything particular to tell. 

32 



DOROTHY. 

Well, I should say so. What a funny girl Esther is 
not to tell. She's like a magpie for secrets — just hoards 
them. You know the stores that were at our house? 
Didn't you ever wonder what had become of them? 

HURLBUT. 
I supposed they had been sent on long ago. 

DOROTHY. 

No, indeed. The day that you and father left in such 
a hurry, when the British marched up the river, a sergeant 
and squad came to our house. Mr. Muhlenberg and Gould 
Lewis were there when you left, you remember. Well, 
when mother heard that the British were coming, she 
just blurted out "Oh, Dorothy, the stores, the stores." 

HURLBUT. 

Before Gould? 

DOROTHY. 

I knew you were going to say that. No, Gould had 
gone. Only Mr. Muhlenberg was there. He didn't seem 
to take any notice, and I shut mother up and though he 
wanted to take us to the church for safety, we decided to 
stay at home and take our chances. He left then, pro- 
testing, and promising to come back speedily. He had 
only been gone a few moments when the searching squad 
came. I can hear the order now, "Surround the house, 
close in." The sergeant was very polite, and I took him 
into every room except the best one where the muskets 
and powder and things were. 

HURLBUT. 

How did you manage it? 

DOROTHY (archly). 
. Well, I told him that I was soon to be married and 
that my wedding clothes were spread out there, and I'd 
rather he wouldn't look. 

HURLBUT. 
And he believed you? 

DOROTHY (demurely). 
He did. 

HURLBUT. 
All alike — go on. 

DOROTHY (archly). 
Well, we gave them some supper — we were just eating 
— and 'being men — 

33 



HURLBUT. 

I understand, go on. 

DOROTHY. 

They went away, apparently satisfied, and all very 
friendly, believing- us Tories. In a few minutes they were 
back, bursting in the door without ceremony, and the 
sergeant marched straight into the front room and found 
everything. Now that wasn't an accident. While the 
sergeant was inside, Peter Muhlenberg came — they must 
have met in the front garden. Of course the thing was per- 
fectly plafti. Outside of you and me, mother and father, 
no one else knew. 

HURLBUT. 
It doesn't seem possible. 

DOROTHY. 

No, it doesn't, but how else can you account for it? 

HURLBUT. 

How, indeed? It's a wonder they didn't make you 
prisoners. 

DOROTHY. 

They would have — it took every sovereign we had to 
prevent it. And all this caused by the Reverend Peter 
Muhlenberg. Do you wonder I detest him? He must 
have had a motive — I suppore he wanted to ingratiate him- 
self and save his church. He never thought we'd suspect 
him. 

HURLBUT. 

I'm so relieved to find that you don't love him, Dorothy, 
that I can almost forgive his treachery. I was afraid 
you did care for him — he's so handsome. 

DOROTHY. 

He's not handsome. And as for loving him, I hate 
him. I've never spoken to him since except when it was 
unavoidable, as just now, but we couldn't have come here 
■without him, and mother still likes him. He denies it, 
of course, and she believes him. 

(Muhlenberg enters with two large, old-fashioned hampers. 
Hurlbut halts him.) 

HURLBUT. 

A word with you, sir. 

MUHLENBERG (surprised at the tone). 
Yes. what's wanted? How can I serve you. Miss Sut- 

tOrt? 



HURLBUT. 

It's not Miss Sutton you are to serve, but the Amer- 
ican Army. 

MUHLENBERG. 
At its service, I'm sure, though I scarcely understand 
your tone. 

HURLBUT. 
You will, directly. 

MUHLENBERG (setting down his hampers). 
The sooner the better. 

HURLBUT. 
I expect you to stand by what you just told me, 
Dorothy. I intend to 'bring this matter of the stores 
stolen from the Suttons to the notice of His Excellency. 

MUHLENBERG. 

And what have the stores stolen from the Suttons to 
do with me? 

HURLBUT. 

You are suspected of having given information, sir. 
And then you dare to come within our lines under pre- 
tense of doing escort duty. In my opinion you're a spy 
in the service of the English government, to learn our 
strength and our condition. And in any case, the man 
who would give information of the stores we need so 
desperately is not the man to have within our lines. If 
we can't prove anything, we can at least have you run 
out of the lines before morning. 

DOROTHY. 

In this weather? Oh Dan'l, Dan'l, what are you do- 
ing? Mr. Muhlenberg only came because we asked him 

to. 

HURLBUT. 

He worked on your mother's feelings. 

MUHLENBERG. 
How dare you? This is nothing but your suspicion. 
Mistress Sutton, it scarcely seems possible that I have 
you to thank for this. 

DOROTHY. 
I'm deeply regretful, Mr. Muhlenberg. 

HURLBUT (sharply to Dorothy). 
You will repeat before His Excellency what you said 
to me? 

(The voices have grown louder, and soldiers with wood sleds, 
and camp idlers gather around.) 

35 



FIRST SOLDIER (same one who was in before). 

I thought he was a spy by the way he talked — too 
cheerful like. And he told the British where the stores 
were, hey? Good pork and beans belike — and with our 
insides so empty. Let's hustle him. boys. 

OTHER SOLDIERS. 

Let's g-et at 'im! Let's get at Mm! 

HURLBUT. 

Silence. This is a matter for your superiors. Ah, 

here comes His Excellency. 

(The soldiers fall back, and there is silence as Washington, 
accompanied by an orderly, enters. Lieutenant Hurlbut and the 
soldiers salute. Washington is in the act of passing hastily.) 

HURLBUT. 

One moment, if I may be so bold, Your Excellency. 
We have a man here who may be a spy. 

GENERAL WASHINGTON. 

The name, sir. 

MUHLENBERG. 

The Reverend Peter Muhlenberg of Norristown, sir. 
I came here as escort for Mistress Sutton and Dorothy, 
her daughter, who had permission to visit Noah Sutton, 
who is ill. We had a safe conduct from General Warren. 
The charge is utterly absurd, sir. 

HURLBUT. 

This is the man who was responsible for the loss of 
the stores of Herkimer county, which were captured by 
a British foraging party last October. Miss Sutton here 
has just told me that it is her belief that Mr. Muhlenberg 
informed the British of the presence of the stores, of the 
whereabouts of which he was aware. The British had 
passed the house once and failed to discover the stores, 
but returned after information had been given. Is this 
not true, Miss Sutton? 

(Washington looks at Dorothy fixedly. She drops a deep 
courtesy. 

DOROTHY. 

Lieutenant Hurlbut entirely mistook my meaning. 
Your Excellency. I have no knowledge that anyone in- 
formed the British of the presence of the stores in my 
father's house. 

WASHINGTON. 

Thank you. Miss Sutton. You have forestalled me. 
for Mr. Muhlenberg's father and mother were among my 

36 



best and oldest friends, and the loyalty of one of their 
name and blood is not to be questioned. See that Mr. 
Muhlenberg has the freedom of the camp, Lieutenant 
Hurlbut. I shall be glad to extend the courtesies of head- 
quarters to you, Mr. Muhlenberg, and to your mother and 
yourself for the night. Mistress Sutton. I must apologize 
for the bareness of our larder, but you will understand. 
(The soldiers are dispersed by a wave of Hurlbut's hand. 
That officer salutes hurriedly, and with a deeply embarassed 
air and a reproachful look at Dorothy, who is staring stonily 
in front of her, turns on his heel and enters Sutton's hut. The 
sentry has marched back and is about to be relieved by another. 
The man who comes in to relieve him is old, with long, thin 
gray locks. His clothes are very ragged; his feet swathed in 
rags. He looks ill- Dorothy and Muhlenberg watch him.) 

GENERAL WASHINGTON (rather brusquely to the sentry). 

Good evening, Baldwin. I'm glad to see that you're 
able to be out again. 

SENTRY (saluting). 

It's my night on guard, sir. 

WASHINGTON. 

Where? 

SENTRY. 

Before the Star Redoubt. 

WASHINGTON. 
Did Morgan send you? The snow is badly drifted over 
tliere. 

SENTRY. 
I'll do my duty. Tour Excellency. 
(Washington removes his cloak, throws it around the man, 
and leaves the stage, walking rapidly, his head down. The sen- 
try goes out in the opposite direction. 

DOROTHY (acting as if she would like to run after Wash- 
ington and kiss his hand, but restraining herself.) 
Oh. God, give victory to this man. 

MUHLENBERG (softly). 
Thank you for defending me, Dorothy. 

DOROTHY. 
Oh, I hate myself for it. I feel like a traitor. It makes 
me hate you. 

MUHLENBERG. 
Don't say that, Dorothy. Wait a little. You'll think 
better of me. 

37 



DOROTHY. 

Never. But, somehow, I couldn't be the one to con- 
demn you. It's part of the hatefulness of being a woman. 
How could you watch General Washington just now and 
remain so cold — the saint. 

MUHLENBERG (impressively). 

Cold? My God! Judge not lest ye be judged. 

DOROTHY (angrily). 

Oh don't preach at me. 

MUHLENBERG (meaningly). 

The next sermon I preach you will remem'ber to your 
dying day, Dorothy Sutton. 

DOROTHY (frightened). 

What do you mean? Tell me. 

MUHLENBERG. 

You'll know soon enough. I've warned you. That's 
all. 
(He leaves the stage.) 

DOROTHY. 
Peter, Peter! You frighten me. Forgive me, I — 
(She runs after him.) 

The sentry returns, marching slowly, and wearing Wash- 
ington's cape. In the distance is heard the bugle call, "Taps." 
Immediately the lights go out in the huts, leaving the stage 
illuminated by the little camp fire. The snow falls softly and in 
the distance is heard the call, "Post 10. Eight o'clock and all's 
well." The sentry leans over, still holding his gun in his stiffened 
fingers, and warms his hands ai the feeble blaze as 

THE CURTAIN FALLS. 



ACT III. 



Time, end of June, 1778. Place, Norrlstown. Tlie day is 
a beautiful one in summer, and the stage shows both the in- 
terior and the exterior of Muhlenberg's church, the church oc- 
copying the left and center of the stage, with the altar at the 
back, facing the audience (with the ordinary furnishings of a 
somewhat plain Episcopal church) ; a choir box, without an 
organ, and pews at either side (see diagram). At the right, a 
door leads with a step or two into the graveyard, where the 
lush June grass is high and the gravestones thick, mossy and 
tilted. In this churchyard the congregation is gathered, the women 
in their lawn and muslin gowns and bonnets in the fashion of 
the period. In the crowd are Mrs. Sutton and Dorothy, Esther 
Hurlbut and her mother and father, Gould Lewis, his mother 
and father, some two or three small children, some boys of thir- 
teen or fourteen with their mothers, many young men and two 
or three old ones. The people are gathered into rival camps of 
almost equal size, the Tories in one, wihch contains most of the 
young men; the patriots in another and slightly larger one, in 
which women predominate. The Lewises lead one faction; the 
Hurlbuts and Buttons lead in the other. They are discussing the 
battle of Monmouth, news of which has just reached them, 
and in their excitement their prayerbooks and the proximity of 
the church are forgotten. 

OLD LEWIS (sneeringly toward the other camp.) 

Seems to me the rebels are mostly women — Washing- 
ton's hard up for friends. 

DOROTHY. 

You know only too well that our men are all flghting. 

ESTHER. 

Why don't you go and fight — you're so handy with 
your mouth. 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Hush, hush, girls, don't pay any attention to him. It 
only pleases him. 

OLD LEWIS (fuming). 

That Hurlbut girl — Gould if you ever dare — 

39 



ESTHER. 

Oh, pray don't excite yourself. I wouldn't look at a 
Lewis if he had a hundred times as much gold as you got 
for giving information of the Sutton stores. 

OLD LEWIS. 

How dare you, you hussy — (He starts toward her but 
is pulled back by his son and others.) 

MRS. HURLBUT (tantalizingly). 

No wonder the old man's sore and his temper up- 
set. This news from the front is enough to make any 
Tory sit up. I tell you it makes 'em sweat. How do 
you like to be beat? The good Lord knows we've had 
enough of it. How does it feel, eh? He, he. 

A MAN (from the Tory side.) 

O, anything but a crowing woman. There isn't so 
much to brag about as I can see. -There's 230 less of you, 
that's all. You'll have to enlist the women pretty soon. 

SEVERAL WOMEN. 

We're ready. 

OLD LEWIS. 

And a good riddance 'twill be. There's too many women 
farmers nowadays. It makes butter too cheap. They sell 
for what they kin get. They haven't got sense enough 
to keep up prices. 

DOROTHY. 

Oh, yes; you want to screw up the price. You don't 
mind gouging your own side when they come to pay for 
provisions — not a bit. 

OLD LEWIS. 

Hold your tongue. I never did approve of figgerin' 
for women. You've no business to know anything about 
prices — leave that to your betters. 

DOROTHY. 

And who might they be? 

A MAN (on the Tory side.) 
Ain't ye proud of Lee now? Tell me that. A fine pat- 
riot he is — he, he, — fair sample of ye all when ye get a 
chance — a traitor once, a traitor always — and run like a 
ferret before a real army — retreated the first chance he 
got. 
ESTHER (stamping her foot and almost in tears with ex- 
cess of anger). 
I doubt not the British bribed him while he was their 
prisoner — that's their way of fighting. Ten thousand 
pities he was ever exchanged. I wish he'd rotted there. 

40 



THE TORY MAN. 

Oh, well, folks, don't roil yourselves. The battle was 
nothing but a skirmish, anyhow — just wait 'till Clinton 
gets a good chance. He'll lick your darling George into a 
cocked hat. Clinton's no Howe. 

SEVERAL WOMEN PATRIOTS (laughing shrilly). 

No, he's nohow. You told the truth for once unin- 
tentionally, Reuben Babcock, ha ,ha, ha. 

THE TORY MAN. 

Crowing hens, faugh! The battle was nothing — a 
mere scratch. 

DOROTHY. 

You lie, Reuben Babcock, and you know it. When 
you win it's a big battle. When we win, it's nothing. Do 
you think this belittling of our battles is going to change 
the end, or push it further off? Oh, you'll be crawling in 
and taking the oath of allegiance to the United States of 
America one of these days. 

ALL THE TORIES. 

Never! Never! 

DOROTHY. 

And when you do I'll press my nose against the win- 
dow of the court house and make faces at you — death-bed 
repentence men — that's what you are. I'll tell you what I 
know about Monmouth — and I had it straight from the lips 
of the runner himself when I carried him food and drink 
and gave him my horse — thank God I had one to give him! 

SEVERAL TORIES. 

You fool, to give him your horse. You'll lose the horse. 
Serves you right. 

DOROTHY. 
What do I care? Wouldn't I give my life for my coun- 
try — what's a horse? 

OLD LEWIS. 
Horses is valuable, jest now. 

DOROTHY. 

Oh, you poor old miser. We ought to pity you, not 
hate you. Your shrivelled soul rattles around like a dried 
pea in a pint cup. Hear the story of Monmouth — it will 
make your heart expand. (The crowd gathers around her, 
the groups partially intermingling, though not losing their 
definite character.) 

Clinton had been harrassed by our brave New Jersey 
boys and the tongues of his men were hanging out with 
the heat and dripping like those of thirsty dog.=; — 

41 



A PATRIOT WOMAN. 

I'd like to have seen 'em, the dogs? 
DOROTHY. 

He was making for New York like a whipped cur, and 
encamped at Monmouth Court House. Lee, it seems, had 
disapproved of the pursuit from the first — he (scornfully) 
has an admiration for the British arms, and he said he 
didn't care to command the advance, so His Excellency 
gave the coveted place to the brave young Lafayette — 

THE PATRIOT CROWD. 

Huzza for the King of France! Huzza for young La- 
fayette ! 

THE TORIES (scornfully) 
His Excellency! Listen to the girl. 

DOROTHY. 

But at the last moment Lee changed his mind (some 
men do) and resumed his place — 

THE PATRIOTS. 

Curse him! 

DOROTHY (with growing excitement). 

Don't interrupt if you want to hear. Lee's men were 
eager to fight. He made no plan but fooled around, and 
finally began to retreat. Clinton, seeing his advantage, 
was quick to seize it — he's not stupid, like Howe, they 
say— and pushed on. Washington was hurrying forward 
with the main army. The men threw away their knap- 
sacks as they ran through the awful heat. The word 
came that Lee was retreating (Dorothy's excitement grows 
every moment. Both groups lean toward her breathless- 
ly .Her eyes blaze — she stands like a Joan of Arc. Her 
bonnet falls to the ground unnoticed. The place is breath- 
less). Then word came to Washington that Lee was re- 
treating. He would not believe it. He simply could not con- 
ceive that any officer would retreat as soon as the ene- 
my advanced when he knew that the main army was 
hastening to his support. Washington spurred his horse 
and galloped to the front. First he met the stragglers, 
stragglers (she swallows her emotion and tries to steady 
her voice) then more and more flying men, then the divis- 
ion in full retreat. At last he saw Lee, and riding straight 
at him he swore a terrible oath — ^I couldn't begin to repeat 
it to you — but it was the first his men had ever heard 
pass those chiselled lips, and it was so terrible that those 
who heard it can never forget it. Lee was livid; so was 
our general. His Excellency asked Lee what he meant by 
retreating. Lee sank in his saddle like the poltroon he is. 
"To the rear, sir!" shouted the general. They say It 
means a court martial. 

42 



THE CROWD. 

Ah-h-h-h-h. 

DOROTHY. 

But the master had come. The General called to the 
men and spoke to them and they took fire from him. Their 
courage had only ebbed because a coward commanded 
them, and came back in full tide at his call. They obeyed 
every order. They were keen for a fight, and they turned 
and charged. All they wanted was a leader. They rallied 
and followed our General. The broken divisions were re- 
formed, there under cover of the wood. The main army 
came up. They charged and repulsed the British — the 
most surprised Redcoats ever you saw. A few minutes 
before they had been pursuing fleeing Continentals, and 
now these same blue and buff fellows were charging 
them. How they ran! Washington drove them before 
him like sheep, and occupied the battlefield of the morn- 
ing. 

And when night fell the runner told me that Wash- 
ington slept under a tree without even a tent, slept, wrap- 
ped in his cloak, with his men lying all around him in the 
warm June night. They intendea to follow up the Brit- 
ish in the morning, as soon as the men were rested from 
their long, quick march. But in the morning Clinton was 
gone — melted like the snow — he had retreated as fast as 
he could skedaddle, dropping 2000 men by the way. Jersey 
cost aim as dear as Philadelphia did Howe. Not a battle? 
Why the whole country will blaze with bonfires to-night 
— fires of joy and exultation, oh, I'm so glad, so glad, so 
glad — 

(Dorothy is in tears, as are most of the Patriots. The Tories 
are too much impressed to jibe. Just then the church bells ring 
out slowly with a clear, sweet tone. The bell-ringer is an old 
man with flowing white locks, much like the old man who rang 
the Liberty bell in Philadelphia, or the fifer the famous pic- 
ture — "The Days of '76." As ^he bell sounds, Muhlenberg enters 
the churchyard from the right. His parishioners hasten forward 
to greet him, and crowd around him. shaking his hand. He is at- 
tired in the ordinary black of the Church of England clergyman. 
His hair is powdered and worn in a queue, as throughout the play. 
He has been away for four montns.) 

MRS. SUTTON (taking his hand). 

Welcome home, again, welcome home, Mr .Muhlenberg. 
I'm right glad to see you back again. It seems long since 
we've heard your voice in the pulpit. And we've needed a 
pastor these four months, besides those junketing ones as 
just happen in, for they've been dark and troublous times, 
with many heartaches. Many of us are in mourning, 
as you see. 

43 



MUHLENBERG. 

I was sorry not to be with you, but my personal affairs 
have been most pressing. Have you been well, and Miss 
Dorothy also? 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Very well, thank you kindly, and Captain Sutton also, 
at last accounts. 

MUHLENBERG. 

I'm glad to hear that — he wasn't wounded at Mon- 
mouth ? 

MRS. SUTTON. 
Not as we've heard. 

ESTHER. 
And your brother is quite recovered, Mr. Muhlenberg? 

MUHLENBERG. 

He is better, thank you, Miss Esther, but I fear he'll 
never be a well man again. 

MRS. SUTTON. 

How sad that is. 
Muhlenberg passes on to the other group. 

OLD LEWIS. 

Glad to see you back again, parson. Let bygones be 
bygones. Me and my family mean to attend church reg'lar. 
We've heerd as how you had a conflerence with Howe in 
Philadelphy. 

MUHLENBERG. 

I did meet Lord Howe, bue I assure you it had no sig- 
nificance — merely a social meeting — my brother knows him 
well. 

OLD LEWIS. 

Oh, Elizabeth wrote it back to us as how you were 
made much of there. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Oh, it was nothing, I do assure you. My brother's 
family is close to those in authority — that is all. It was 
quite other business that detained me and prevented me 
from returning as soon as I had expected and hoped. 
What it was you shall know very shortly. (To them all.) 
I'm glad that you are all well and to see so many out 
to-day. I hope that this may be a united parish again 
as it was once. I shall make my position quite clear to- 
day. 

THE CROWD. 

Oh, oh, oh. Did you hear that? 
OLD LEWIS. 

I'm glad of it — indeed I am. We've been a little doubt- 

44 



ful as to where ye stood — at least we were until you went 
away and we heard o' your doln's in Philadelphy. But it's 
all right now — I'm sure the parish will be united before 
long, loyal once more to good King George. There's sure 
to be a decisive battle soon — that'll send *em scurrying 
over to our side. Let the others get out if they don't 
like it, and build a new church of their own — new churches 
cost money. 

(Muhlenberg passes into the church, through it, and disap- 
pears within the vestry. 

ESTHER (to Dorothy). 

Did you hear that? 

DOROTHY. 

les, what have I told you all along? He was al- 
ways a traitor and a turncoat. Three months of being 
dazzled by British gold lace and scarlet has finished him. 
I shouldn't wonder if his brother's illness were only a 
ruse, and if he'd acceot a commission in the British 
army. They're after young Colonials, you know. Eliza- 
beth wrote that he was quite gay and much admired by 
the young ladies of Philadelphia. 

ESTHER. 

Oh, Dorothy. 

PATRIOT WOMAN. 

I don't like what he said to old man Lewis. He's not 
with us — indeed he isn't. 

A TORY MAN. 

He's not half outspoken enough to suit me. Why 
doesn't he call Washington a damned traitor, as he is? 
He speaks in riddles and too respectful-like. 

OLD LEWIS. 

Let 'em build a new church if they don't like us — let 
'em, let 'em. We don't ask 'em to stay. New churches 
cost money, he, he. 

GOULD LEWIS. 

Father, try not to think of money all the time. 

' OLD LEWIS. 

Hold your tongue. 
(The church bell rings again, slowly and calmly, and the 
crowd commences to flow slowly into church and take places 
in the pews. Four persons, two men and two women, enter 
the box of the choir and take their places. The tenor, a dapper 
young colonial, sounds a tuning fork. The Tories take places on 
one side of the church and the patriots on the other, the patriots 
being on the left in front of the choir. Glowering looks and 

45 



tantalizing words are freely exchanged, and flsts are almost 
shaken across the aisle between.) 

OLD LEWIS (shaking his fist covertly at Dorothy and Esther.) 

You young hussies! How I'd like to box your ears. 
A WOMAN PATRIOT. 

Hush, this is the house of God. 

MRS. LEWIS. 

It's Sunday, father. 

OLD LEWIS. 

Humph, don't care if 'tis. Ain't Sunday as good as 

enny other day? 

(Muhlenberg enters through the vestry door and kneels for 
a moment at the altai*. Everybody stands as he enters and 
kneels as he kneels. Muhlenberg wears the vestments of an 
Anglican clergyman about to officiate at service. There is 
complete silence in the church. 

(NOTE — This service may be lengthened or shortened at will, 
as a number of parts of the service have been omitted for brev- 
ity's sake. Nothing is absolutely essential except the opening 
of the service, the anthem and the prayer for King George.) 

MUHLENBERG (standing at the reading desk with his 
side toward the congregation, the audience rises.) 
When the wicked man turneth away from his wicked- 
ness that he hath committed and doth that which is 
lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive. 

Dearly beloved brethren, the scriptures moveth us in 
sundry places to acknowledge and confess our manifold 
sins and wickedness, and that we should not dissemble nor 
cloak them before the face of Almighty God, our Heavenly 
Father, but confess them with an humble, lowly, penitent 
and obedient heart to the end that we may obtain forgive- 
ness of the same by His infinite goodness and mercy. 
And although we ought at all times humbly to acknowl- 
edge our sins before God, yet ought we most chiefly so to 
do when we assemble and meet together, to render thanks 
for the great benefit that we have received at His hands, 
to set forth His most worthy praise, to hear His most 
holy word, and to ask those things which are requisite 
and necessary, as well for the body as the soul. Where- 
fore I pray and beseech you, as many as are here pres- 
ent, to accompany me with a pure heart, and humble 
voice, to the thrown of heavenly giace, saying after me: 

MUHLENBERG (kneeling, the congregation kneeling and 

repeating after him). 

Almighty and Most Merciful Father, We have erred 

and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have 

followed too much the devices and desires of our own 

46 



heart. We have offended against Thy laws. We have 
left undone those things which we ought to have done; 
and we have done those things which we ought not to have 
done, and there is no health in us. But Thou, O Lord, 
have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare Thou 
them, O God, which confess their faults. Restore Thou 
them that are penitent; according to Thy promises de- 
clared unto mankind in Christ Jesus, our Lord. And grant, 
O Most Merciful Father, for His sake, that we may here- 
after live a godly, righteous, and sober life, to the glory 
of Thy holy name. Amen. 

MUHLENBERG (standing. The congregation still kneel- 
ing.) 

Almighty God. the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, 
who desireth not the death of a sinner, but rather that 
he may turn from his wickedness and live; and hath 
given power and commandment to His ministers, to de- 
clare and pronounce to His people, being penitent, the ab- 
solution and remission of their sins: He pardoneth and 
absolveth all them that truly repent, and unfeignedly be- 
lieve His holy gospel. Wherefore let us beseech Him to 
grant us true repentance, and His holy Spirit, that those 
things may please Him which we do at this present, and 
that the rest of our life hereafter may be pure and holy, 
so that at last we may come to His eternal joy, through 
Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen. 

MUHLENBERG (kneeling). 
O Lord, open Thou our lips. 

THE PEOPLE (kneeling). 

And our mouth shall show forth Thy praise. 

MUHLENBERG. 

O God, make speed to save us 

THE PEOPLE. 

O Lord, make haste to help us. 

MUHLENBERG (standing. The people rise). 
Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the 
Holy Ghost. (All heads bow slightly at the names of the 
Trinity.) 

CHOIR (chanting). 
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, 
world without end, amen. 

MUHLENBERG. 
Praise ye the Lord. 

CHOIR. 
The Lord's name be praised. 
(The choir sings the following words to any old-fashioned 

47 



tune, the Idea being not to make fun of the music, but to show 

its rather primitive characted.) 

We praise Thee, O God; we acicnowledge Thee to be 
the Lord. We believe that thou shalt come to be our 
judge. We therefore pray Tliee, help Thy servants whom 
Thou hast redeemed with Thy precious blood. Make 
them to be numbered with thy saints in glory everlast- 
ing. Day by day we magnify Thee. And we worship Thy 
name; ever worm without end. Vouchsafe, O Lord, to 
keep us this day without sin. O Lord, have mercy upon 
us. Let Thy mercy lighten upon us as our trust is in 
Thee. O Lord, in Thee have I trusted; let me never be 
confounded. 

MUHLENBERG (Kneeling). 

O Lord, show Thy mercy upon us. 

THE PEOPLE (kneeling). 

And grant us Thy salvation. 

MUHLENBERG. 

O Lord, save the King. 

THE PEOPLE. 

And mercifully hear us when we call upon Thee. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Endue Thy ministers with righteousness. 

THE PEOPLE. 

And make Thy chosen people joyful. 

MUHLENBERG. 

O Lord, save Thy people. 

THE PEOPLE. 

And bless Thine inheritance. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Give us peace in our time, O Lord. 

THE PEOPLE. 
Because there is none other that flghteth for us, but 
only Thou, O God. 

MUHLENBERG. 
O God, make clean our hearts within us. 

THE PEOPLE. 

And take not Thy holy spirit from us. 

MUHLENBERG. 

O Lord, our Heavenly Father, high and Mighty King of 
kings (his voice breaks here with emotion, and he pauses 
to recover control of himself.) 



DOROTHY (who sits in a pew nearest the audience, 
with Esther beside her, under her breath to Esther). 

The prayer for the King. 
(Old Lewis openly leers at her. She bites her lip angerly 
and returns him a glance full of venom.) 

MUHLENBERG. 

— Lord of lords, the only Ruler of princes, who dost 
from Thy throne behold all the dwellers upon earth; 
most heartily we beseech Thee with Thy favor to be- 
hold our most gracious Sovereign Lord King George 
and to replenish him with the grace of Thy Holy Spirit — 
(his voice breaks and he again stops to control it, clear- 
ing his throat with effort.) 

ESTHER. 

Well, he needs it — the grace of the Holy Spirit — most 
gracious sovereign, indeed — -setting the Indians on us- — 

MUHLENBERG. 

— that he may always incline to Thy will and walk in 
Thy way. Endue him plenteously with heavenly gifts, 
grant him in health and wealth long to live, that he may 
vanquish and overcome all his enemies (pause) and finally, 
after this life, he may attain everlasting joy and felicity 
through Jesus Christ our Lord. 
(Muhlenberg wipes his streaming forehead. Hearty amens 

from the Tory side of the church — dead silence from the Patriot 

side.) 

MUHLENBERG (coming forward to the reading desk, but 
still within the chancel.) 

Dearly beloved, it is my duty to make clear to you to- 
day how and where I stand upon important matters which 
are rending this wretched country of ours and have been 
rending it for almost two long and weary years. It 
is your right to know these things, and when I remem- 
ber how this unhappy parish of mine has been torn by 
bickerings and unneighborly strife, cruel swords and still 
more cruel tongues, I blame myself, for had I been more 
outspoken, you might have stood a compact band, shoulder 
to shoulder to-day. But I have been wrestling with an 
angel, as Jacob did, and like that ancient patriarch I 
have had a great struggle. Few of you, perhaps none of 
you will ever know how duty and sympathy and blood and 
most sacred vows have warred within me. At last my 
calling has been made clear to me. The voice has sum- 
moned me, and like Samuel of old, I have answered, 
"Lord, here am I." 
(All lean forward breathlessly.) 

You know the story of this unhappy strife as well as 
I do — know it from the beginning to the end which is not 

49 



yet, for we have all breathed it, laid down with it, slept 
with it, gotten up with it, every night and morning for 
almost two years. You know the story of the dreadful 
civil feud where brother has stabbed brother and child- 
country has turned to tear and rend the mother throat. 
You know by heart, as I do, the story of the war from 
Concord down, for no foreign war can ever be as terri- 
ble or as real a war as this rebellion of a child against 
its mother — this fratricidal strife. 

You know how the minute men, patriot farmers ,fell 
at the bridge; you know the wild night rides of men — and 
tender women, too— to rouse the sleeping countryside; 
you know how the Delaware was crossed; how the ice 
ground against the cockleshells of boats, the storm, the 
blinding snow, (a woman sobs aloud) the sleet, and how 
the carousing Hessians were surprised on the birthday 
of our Savior. You know the story of Trenton and the 
Brandywine — each name calls up to you a victory you 
love to think of — one that makes the blood flow quick 
and warm through your veins, or a defeat which sting-s 
you like a scourge. 

My friends and neighbors, it Is easy to be heroic; 
heroes are born and breathe thir natural atmosphere 
everj' day. We sing of them and of their brave deeds. 
But do you know as well, in the story of this terrible war, 
the tale of the American army starved last winter at 
Valley Forge; the air white with the wings of descend- 
ing angels and ascending souls — the souls of brave men 
who faced death willingly that their idea of liberty 
might live? They were heroes, too, but you do not know 
their names, nor do I, and History will not know them, 
for they starved to death and died for lack of clothes and 
medicine and care — but died willingly that you and I 
might live. You have heard of the blood-trodden snow, 
but you have heard coldly because the bleeding feet did 
not belong to you or yours. Men (his voice rising) I am 
not going to argue causes with you. Everyone of you has 
reasoned it out for himself during these two years, and 
each one of you know whether or not he believes in 
taxation without representation, and all the rest of the 
shibboeths. But I saw those sights of w'hich I speak — 
the blood-stained snow, the angels coming down and 
hovering over those huts and never going back empty- 
handed — I saw the feet that bled; the soldiers who died 
of privation; the pinched, starved faces; the tattered uni- 
forms; the blue flesh underneath. I saw, too, the man 
who held that wreck of an army together, who drilled 
and cheered it, put heart and soul into it; who prayed for 
it, pleaded with it, cherished it, comforted it in sickness 
and in health — 

And then I went to Philadelphia and I saw, sung, 

50 



warm and comfortable, the army of invasion — for the 
most part guzzling hirelings of the man for whom we 
have just prayed. They made merry and caroused, and 
I thought of those others, freezing and praying and hop- 
ing for the right in our bitter Pennsylvania woods. 

In the language of holy writ there is a time for 
all things — a time to preach and a time to pray, but these 
times have passed away. There is a time to fight, and that 
time is now come. If we win the great prize we fight for, 
no price can be too great. The agony of my counti-y calls 
me from the altar with a voice that touches every chord 
of my soul, a voice that must be obeyed. The time for 
fighting has come — the time to try men's souls. My sin 
is that I have waited too long. Rebellion against tyrants 
is obedience to God. Only in a sacred cause would I 
unsheath my sword and forsake the altar that I have 
vowed to serve. 

Men and women of Norristown, I was with Wash- 
ington last week, and this is the vow I took — the new oath 
to which I consecrate my life and strength and all that I 
am. 

"I, Peter Muhlenberg, do acknowledge the United 
States of America to be free, independent and sovereign 
States, and declare that the people thereof owe no allegi- 
ance nor obedience to George the Third, King of Great 
Britain, and I renounce, refuse and abjure any allegiance 
or obedience to him; and I do swear that I will, to the 
utmost of my power, support, maintain and defend the 
United States against King George the Third, and will 
serve the United States in the oflRce of colonel, which T 
now hold, with fidelity, according to the best of my skill 
and understanding. Sworn before Almighty God and 
George Washington." 

OLD LEWIS (his white hair flying, his voice hoarse with 

passion, rises in his place, shaking his fist at 

Muhlenberg). 

You traitor, you. This temple is the house of peace. 

MUHLENBERG. 

No, by God's rood. He is with us — God is with our 
righteous cause, and His temples shall be our forts and 
towers. The time for prayer has past; the time to fight 
has come. This is the dawn of Freedom's day. Men of 
Norristown, mark my words — the prayer for George the 
Third will never be heard within these walls again. To 
paraphrase, with all reverence, the words of our Lord and 
Savior, "If any man would come after me, let him deny 
himself and take up his sword and follow me." Who dares 
come out with me in Freedom's name — to live for her, to 
die for her? 

51 



MEN OF THE CONGREGATION. 
I, I, I. I. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Sound the call for recruits! 

(Ai I he open door appears the ancient bell-ringer with a 
fife and a boy with a drum. A trumpeter in blue and buff sends 
out the call for recruits, and the church bell rings madly, in 
very quick time, pulled by a small boy. The call for recruits is 
followed by "Yankee Doodle." Muhlenberg throws off his vest- 
ments, revealing himself in the full blue and buff uniform of 
a Revolutionary Oolonel, even to the sword. The cocked hat 
with a cockade he produces from behind the altar and, coining 
through the chancel gate, he marches quickly down the aisle. 
Every man in the house, except old Lewis, even those who have 
been talking the most ardent Tory talk, presses forward, and, 
falling into step with the fife and drum, follow him out. The 
men in the choir box leap over the low partition, not stopping 
to get out in the ordinary way. Gould Lewis rushes after Muhl- 
enberg. His parents try to hold him back, but he breaks away 
from them, shouting: ) 

GOULD LEWIS. 

Take me,too! Take me! Take me! 

(The women in the church, including Dorothy and Esther, 
stand on the seats and the prayer stools, waving kerchiefs and 
fichus, some cheering, others weeping, as Muhlenberg comes 
down the aisle. The patriot women nearest him, catch at his 
hands and coattails. The church is a scene of the wildest uproar 
and excitement. Dorothy tries in vain to attract Muhlenberg's 
attention, but his glance is stern and he does not look at her. 
After Muhlenberg and the men have passed out, the rest of the 
people pour out into the churchyard and crowd among the grave- 
stones. An old man pushes his son toward Peter; the mothers 
of the little boys, weeping, lead them up to him and offer them. 
The young men press around him, waving their hats and calling 
out their names. 

MEN. 
Job Hatch, Reuben Babcock, Seth Wilson, William Ru — 
as the curtain falls. 



ACT IV. 



Scene #« 

A lonely crossroads. Time, late October. 1781. It is early in 
the morning, some days after Cornwallis' surrender, news of which 
has not yet reached Norristown. A tall, old-fashioned finger post 
with two arms reads, on one side "Ten miles to Chester," and on 
the other "Five miles to Tarrytown." The roads are bordered by 
low stone walls with blackberry vines running over them. In 
the distance are beautiful woods in autumn coloring. No one 
is in sight. A horseman is heard approaching at a smart oanter. 
He dismounts off the stage (or on) and comes on leading his 
horse. The inscription on the finger post is somewhat dim 
and he peers sharply at it, taking from his pocket a paper of 
instructions, which he scans attentively. He Is a young man, 
dressed after the fashion of a prosperous farmer, his hair in a 
queue, but unpowdered, and his hat a three-cornered one. 

As the horseman reads, two slender, boyish figures in home- 
spun and cocked hats rise cautiously from behind the stone 
fence at the man's back. One of these figures points a p'stol at 
the horseman, while the other kneels behind the fence, resting 
on it a heavy Revolutionary musket. The boyish figures are 
Dorothy and Esther, attired in clothes belonging to Daniel. 

DOROTHY. 

Halt! Right about face. (The man puts a hand to 
his pistol, but turns toward the voice.) 

DOROTHY. 

You're covered, sir. Draw and you fall. 

THE MAN (Silas Crouch). 
What in hell do you want? 

ESTHER. 
You know well enough — those dispatches. 

CROUCH. 
Pooh, what dispatches? 

DOROTHY. 

You can't fool us, Silas Crouch. We know all about 
you. Give us those dispatches for Clinton. 

53 



CROUCH. 

How in hell do yau know my name, twenty miles from 
home? I'll swear I don't know you from a side o' sole- 
leather. Even the boys in this damned country seem to 
be rebels. 

DOROTHY. 

Well, it's people like you that make it a damned coun- 
try. Never mind how we know you, Silas, old boy. We've 
been laying for you for weeks. Now you're in our trap, 
and it's loaded — don't forget that. 
(Crouch makes a quick move for his pistol.) 

DOROTH'V (shrieking). 
Fire, Dan'l. 
(Esther fires. The man gives a groan of pain and his right 
arm falls useless.) 

CROUCH. 
Now you've done it. How the devil am I to get back- 
ward or forward? 

DOROTHY (vaulting the stone wall lightly, while Esther 
still keeps the man covered with Dorothy's pistol). 
'Twas your own fault. I warned you how 'twould 
be. You're wasting your time and our powder. You're 
wanted at home, Silas Crouch, and we'll trouble you for 
your papers. The dispatches, an' you please. 

CROUCH (sullenly, nursing his arm). 
I've no dispatches. Somebody's been a-foolin' of ye. 
Search for yourself. 

DOROTHY (over her shoulder). 

Keep him cevered, Dan'l. This is a beastly business. 

ugh! 

She begins to search him systematically, but gingerly, and 
with exceeding daintiness. She finds the papers finally in the 
lining of his hat, but not until she has turned all his pockets 
inside out, and left them hanging out, and has even removed 
his buckled shoes. In the beginning of the search she takes his 
pistols away from him and lays them very carefully on the 
stone fence near Esther. 

DOROTHY (with great dignity). 
That is all. You may go now, Mr. Crouch. You'll be 
just in time to see to the churning, if you hurry. These 
dispatches will go where they'll do the most good (read- 
ing). Ah, there are more stores! Good! We need 'em 
badly. (She attempts a swaggering laugh, but her voice 
trembles. She adds, gently) Does your arm hurt much? 
Shall I tie it up for you? 
(She improvishes a sling from her handkerchief and Esther's, 

54 



Esther still keeping him covered, and then makes a rough tour- 
niquet of her neckcloth. 

DOROTHY. 

Does it feel better? 

CROUCH (sullenly). 

Naw. Say, you're nothing but a boy. Gee, I'd never 
hear the last of it at home if they heard I'd been held up 
by a couple of lads. Say — seems to me I've seen your face 
afore. 
(He makes an attempt to grab Dorothy, his design being to 

hold her between himself and Esther, but Dorothy is too quick 

for him, and jumps aside.) 

DOROTHY. 

No you don't. You always was a lumpkin and a cow- 
ard. No wonder Nancy Van Alstine gave you the mitten. 

CROUCH. 

Nancy Van Alstine? Why, why, how did you know? 
ESTHER (warningly). 

Look out, Noah. You talk too much. 

DOROTHY (haughtily). 

Be gone, sir. Mount your horse and ride two hun- 
dred paces without looking back. Go in the direction from 
which you came or we'll put a bullet through your other 
arm, and then you can't ride at all. 

CROUCH. 

Say — hold up. 

ESTHER. 

Silence, sir. Obey orders or I shoot. Mount. (Crouch 
does so with great alacrity. His horse walks off the 
stage. He shouts back without turning his head, stop- 
ping his horse just before he reaches the wings.) 

CROUCH. 

I'll be even with you for this, you young scamps. My 
God — Dorothy Sutton's voice and Esther Hurlbut's — it 
was you who winged me, you Hurlbut brat. I'll be even 
with you and your father for this, Esther. Look out 
for your farm house and your barns — they may bum 
-some fine windy night. (He laughs derisively.) As for 
you, Mistress Sutton — we're quits. Do you remember 
the stores you starved and sweated for In '77? They tast- 
ed mighty good to King George's men, I'll tell you, and the 
guns helped to kill some damned Yankee rebels In blue 
and buff — maybe that coxcomb of a brother of yours, 
Esther Hurlbut. Have your windows made higher from 

55 



the ground when you go to live with Peter at the par- 
sonage, Dorothy. 

(He laughs derisively, his voice dying aiway. Dorothy and 
Esther look at each other blankly, and then tear open the dis- 
patches as the 

CURTAIN FALLS. 



Scene 2m 

Time, later in the eame day as Scene I. There need be no 
time lost between these two scenes, as the setting for the sec- 
ond scene may be arranged behind the drop curtain of the first. 
Scene, the lawn in front of the village inn, "Ye Fife and Drum." 
A large picture of General Washington, bearing the tavern name, 
swings gaily in front of the inn, suspended from an iron crane. 
There are tables spread on the lawn with canopies over them. 
The tables are piled with good things to eat and drink, and are 
decorated with flowers and autumn leaves. The tavern is colo- 
nial, with a wide porch, and in front of it is gathered a crowd, 
composed almost entirely of women and children of all ages, in 
gala dress, for the most part. There are a few feeble old men 
in the crowd. The children run out into the road and back 
again constantly to see if the soldiers are coming. Two or 
three women in black dresses stand apart, silently looking on. 
Prominent in the crowd is Mrs. Sutton, with her arms full of 
flowers. The young women are prettily dressed In light figured 
lawns. Fifes and drums are heard in the distance, becoming 
louder all the time. The landlord rushes out and waves his apron 
down the road in an excess of loyalty. The children run into 
the road and out of sight, and this time they do not come back. 
The women rush down to the gate and the head of the column 
of the Pennsylvania militia comes into view with fifers and 
drummers. The men have wreaths of flowers and autumn leaves 
around their necks; the little children ride on their fathers' 
shoulders; the older children run along at fhe side, clinging to 
the men's hands and trying to take long strides and to keep up. 
The women run forward, throw flowers around the men's necks 
and are clasped to their husbands' breasts. An old man hobbles 
forward on his stick, and is clasped in the arms of his son. 
One old woman scans every face as it passes her; then screams 
and faints as she does not find her son. She is carried into the 
tavern. 

Muhlenberg, in a colonel's uniform, is at the head of his men. 
on foot. After each woman has decorated her own, she throTvs 
flowers over Muhlenberg until he is all but covered and laugh- 
ingly protests against any more. Mrs. Sutton is with her hus- 
band, who wears the uniform of a captain. She hangs on his 

56 



shoulder. There is a perfect babel of laughter, kisses and voices. 
A WOMAN SPEAKS. 

Colonel Muhlenberg, we're proud of you. We know 
what a part you played at Yorktown — going to be men- 
tioned in Congress for it, they say. Norristown is proud 
of ye. Next to His Excellency, by the grace o' God, you're 
the savior of our country. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Oh, nonsense, madam, a plain case of duty, that's all. 
I'm afraid the sword becomes me better than the crucifix. 
The order is given for the men to break ranks, and they crowd 
to embrace their women, and to eat and drink at the tables. 

GOULD LEWIS. 

Fie, he's too modest. It wasn't only at Yorktown. At 
Paulus Hook he got right in behind the raw malitia and 
turned a flight into a pursuit, saved the day, too. Huzza 
for Parson Peter — Soldier Peter — Colonel Peter! 

THE CROWD. 

Huzza! Huzza! 

MUHLENBERG. 

Gould, you always were incorrigible. Lots of trouble 
you've made me, trying to keep you out of hot water and 
get you home with a whole skin. Spare my German 
blushes. Huzza for the American States; Huzza 
t'or His Excellency, our beloved General Washington. 

THE CROWD. 

Huzza! Huzza! 

GOULD LEWIS (striving to raise his voice above the 
tumult). 

German nonsense! You're the best Yankee of the 
lot. (To Mrs. Sutton.) But where are Esther and Doro- 
thy? I didn't expect to see my folks — they havn't forgiven 
me yet, I suppose — but I must confess that I did think to 
see Esther first of all. I was looking for her to come way 
down the road. Esther isn't one of the hanging back 
kind — or at least, she wasn't when I saw her last. She 
hasn't seen anybody she likes better, has she, Mi's. Sut- 
ton? She's written regular, dear little girl. 

MRS. SUTTON. 

Seen anybody? La' no, who would she see, in this 
man-forsaken country. Who would she see, pray. Old 
Daddy Tull? She didn't know you were coming, that's 
all, and no more did Dorothy. She and Dorothy have 
some terrible secret — 

57 



GOULD, MUHLENBERG AND SUTTON (in one breath). 

Some terrible secret? 

MRS. SUTTON (importantly). 

Yes, the way they've been acting- just worritted me 
to death — behaving like wild critters for a week — riding 
about country harum-scarum, gone all day and all night. 

SUTTON (Aghast). 

All night! Where did they go, pray? 

MRS. SUTTON. 

You tell. They wouldn't tell me, though I demanded to 
know, and then I begged and prayed them on my knees 
If the country hadn't been bare o' men almost, I'd have 
been frightened to death. But there's really nothing tc 
harm them. We only got wind of the surrender o' Corn- 
wallis this morning by a mounted messenger, and we 
didn't know whether to believe it or not — so much of the 
good news has been false — 

SUTTON. 

That's true enough. 

MRS. SUTTON. 
Of course we knew the war wasn't over — 
SUTTON. 

I'm not so sure about that — 

MRS. SUTTON. 

But then we heard as you were coming to-day, and 
(with housewifely pride) we've made all our preparations 
since them. I tell you we worked. I had no time to hum 
for the girls, and shouldn't have known where to look for 
'em anyhow. They'll be terribly disappointed, but it serves 
'em right. (Peevishly.) I've no authority over Dorothy 
since you went away, Noah. 

GOULD. 

You never did have much. She always had her head 
and led Eisther. 

MUHLENBERG. 

But such a clever head. You'll have to admit that. 
I hope nothing's happened to her. 

SUTTON (to Gould). 

You've no call to say that Dorothy was a ring-leader, 
Gould. Esther was always the mischief maker, though 
younger, from the time she got Dorothy to upset the 
churnin*. But this must stop. 

(Enter Dorothy and Esther hastily, dusty, dishevelled, hot, 
tired, but triumphant, and still in boy's clothes.) 

58 



DOROTHY. 

Well, for the love of Heaven, whit's this? Oh, good 
gracious, these clothes. 

MRS. SUTTON (aghast). 
Dorothy, Esther, for shame! 

DOROTHY. 

Father, oh, my dear, my dear! 
(Dorothy throws herself in Sutton's arms. Esther runs to 
Gould and hugs him. Dorothy turns from her father to give 
her hand shyly to Muhlenberg, who stands near. 

DOROTHY. 

Mr. Muhlenberg, I owe you a thousand apologies. I 
know now who told about the stores. Long since I knew 
that it was not you. But the mystery's been cleared away 
this morning. 

MRS. SUTTON. 
I told you so! 

MUHLENBERG. 
Thank you. Mistress Dorothy. I was sure I'd be clear- 
ed some day, but I'm glad that you acquitted me in you- 
own mind first. 

DOROTHY. 
And you don't care to know who it was? 

MUHLENBERG. 
Not unless you wish to tell me. It is enough that you 
are satisfied. 

MRS. SUTTON. 
Well, I never! 

GOULD (calling out with his mouth full of cake and 

a glass of wine in his hand). 
Say, Dolly, is this a masquerade? You look wonder- 
fully well in those clothes. Esther they don't become. 

MUHLENBERG. 

To my mind, Miss Esther looks the better of the two. 
SUTTON (rather sternly). 

You must explain this to me, Dorothy. Your mother 
says she has no control over you. I can't have you run- 
ning over the country in this madcap way. You'll be 
tavern- talk. 

DOROTHY (appealingly). 

Don't scold to-day, daddy. We'll never do it again — 
it won't be necessary. We'll tell you all about it, won't 
we, Esther? You see we only heard of the surrender of 

59 



Corney down the road, and we'd no idea you were coming 
home so soon. We wouldn't have had you see us this way 
for a good deal, would we, Esther? But we've finished an 
important piece of business, daddy, Esther and I — though 
I suppose it doesn't count for anything now. Oh, I don't 
see why Cornwallis had to surrender quite so soon. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Hear the child. On my life, she's actually sorry the 
war's ended — 

SUTTON. 
But what was the business? Out with it, Dolly. 

DOROTHY. 
Well, you know Silas Crouch — 

ESTHER. 
Of White House. 

SUTTON. 
Yes, a damned Tory. 

DOROTHY. 
I should say so. Well, we heard that he had been col- 
lecting stores and money from the Tory farmers about 
White House — it's a rich country, and there's a nest of 
them there — and that he was on his way to Chester with 
important dispatches. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Were there no men to do this? 

DOROTHY (with great spirit). 

Oh, men, men, men! Other people can do things be- 
sides men. When you preached that sermon of yours, 
you know everything in breeches followed you off, even 
the little shavers, just as the children followed after the 
Pied Piper of Hamelin. There was a few old decrepids 
with crutches left in the village, but we couldn't trust them. 
So Esther and I decided to wear some of poor Dan'l's 
clothes and go after him ourselves. Esther's a good shot, 
you know, and I was to do the talking — that's my forte. 
We thought he would go by the Tarrytown cross-roads 
and would reach there at about sunrise this morning. We 
rode all night, and nabbed him as he passed — and here 
we are. Here, also, are the dispatches.. 

MUHLENBERG. 
Well done. 

GOULD LEWIS AND SUTTON. 
Hurray! 



GOULD LEWIS. 

Bully for you, Esther. 

MRS. SUTTON (shocked). 
Oh Dorothy. 

DOROTHY (crossly). 

Oh, don't look so much like a hen with a duck chick, 
mother. (Handing the despatches to Muhlenberg.) Of 
course they're of no importance now, but it was great 
fun getting them. 

MUHLENBERG. 

I don't know about their being of no use. These stores 
may be of importance to us yet, and the money certainly 
will be, if we can get at it before they take it away. It's 
by no means certain that there'll be no more fighting, 
though His Excellency thinks they've had enough of it. 
And it's important, too, to know who the traitors are. 
This shall go to headquarters, never fear, mistress mine, 
with a full account of the capture. I salute you. Lieu- 
tenants Esther and Dorothy — you'll be brevetted yet. 

GOULD. 

You're true grit, Esther, always were, all the way 
through. I'm so ashamed when I remember that I wouldn't 
lend you my horse that time. But say, did Crouch give 
you any trouble? 

DOROTHY (loftily). 

Oh, a little. Esther wingeh him. 

MRS. SUTTON. 
Girls, how dreadful. Oh, I wish you were both safely 
married. Nobody will want such hoydens. 

MUHLENBERG. 
Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. 

GOULD. 

And he didn't recognize you? He must be a fool. He's 
seen you often enough — danced with you, hasn't he? 

ESTHER. 

At first he didn't know us, but Dor — we talked a good 
deal more than was necessary — and at last he placed our 
voices. He said he'd burn our house and barns some fine 
night, and then he taunted Dorothy. He was the one who 
told about the stores. 

GOULD. 

Gee, it's great — You're a veteran yourself now, Esther. 
(They cross over to a side table to chat confidentially.) 



SUTTON. 

So he was the culprit. I nevei' suspected you, Muhlen- 
berg. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Thank you, sir. 

DOROTHY. 
I was much too hasty. 

MRS. SUTTON, (severely). 

I hope it will be a lesson to you, Dorothy. 

THE INNKEEPER (appearing at the door of the tavern). 

Captain Sutton, the countryside wishes to drink your 
very good health. 

THE CROWD BEHIND HIM. 

Aye, that we do. Neighbor Noah — Hear, hear, aye, aye! 

SUTTON. 

Thank you, Stearns. I'm glad to see you've changed 
your sign and your politics. "Ye Fife and Drum," and 
His Excellency's picture is mush more acceptable to us 
than "The Bluebells of Scotland," and "Red-nosed George 
the Third." 

THE INNKEEPER (embarassed and sheepish). 

Yes, sir; oh, yes, indeed. I'm very loyal, I am, sir. 
(Mr. and Mrs. Sutton go in arm in arm.) 

DOROTHY (bowing mockingly to Muhlenberg). 

Oh, it will all be a lesson to me, I am sure. But with- 
out it you might still be a parson, not a colonel. 

MUHLENBERG. 

You prefer me this way? 

DOROTHY. 

Indeed I do. I'll be more polite to you now. I consider 
your clothes very becoming, and the sword much mightier 
than the cassock. 

MUHLENBERG. 

You are bewitching in those clothes — too much so 
when there are other people about. 

DOROTHY. 

Oh, I see, that is why you said that nasty thing about 
Esther looking better in them than I— thank you. 
(They go off the stage together at the opposite side from 
where Gould and Esther are. Gould and Esther^ talk from the 
table, he sitting on the edge of the table with a mug in his hand 
and a huge slice of cake.) 

62 



GOULD. 

It reminds me of a play I read down in Philadelphia — 

ESTHER (shocked). 
A play! 

GOULD (his mouth full). 

Yes, that's nothing- compared to what soldiers do. It 
was about Capulets and Montagues who fought, and a 
girl from one side and a fellow from the other who loved 
each other. It played the deuce with them, their fathers 
not agreeing, but we won't let it with us, will we, Esther? 
We're on the same side now, and the old folks can fght 
it out between themselves for all we care. But I did think 
that father and mother would be down here to forgive me 
when I got home, specially seeing as we beat. (Esther 
refills his glass and plies him with cookies). It's good to 
be on the winning side — father always changed his politics 
when a new ministry came in. 

ESTHER. 

I think they'll come 'round. Gould, when they see how 
manly you've grown. It's made a man of you and they 
won't be able to resist — an only son, too. 

GOULD (swelling out his chest). 
Well, war will make a man of you if anything will. See 
my moustache, Esther? 

DOROTHY. 

I don't see anything. 

GOULD, (disappointed). 

You don't? I can see it. 

ESTHER. 

It must be the eye of faith then — your mother has al- 
ways been worrying about your religious convictions — 
though she doesn't know you've taken to reading wicked 
plays — and she'll be glad to hear you have faith enough 
to see something so intangible. (Archly) Perhaps I could 
feel it — I'm very sensative that way. 

GOULD (bending toward her and rubbing her cheek and 
then kissing her shyly and boyishly). 

Can you? Stop laughing, Esther. Now that I've been 
through battles you shan't treat me like a boy. 

ESTHER. 

Let me see — almost the last lengthy conversation I had 
with you, you refused to lend me your horse because 
your father mignt cane you. Shouldn't wonder if he'd do 

63 



it now, seeing that you're home safe and sound, in spite 
of the hairy lip. He'll certainly do it if you tell him you're 
going to marry me. Your father and mine hate each other 
like poison, and spit at each other over the fence to the 
back meadows. 

GOULD (earnestly). 

Esther, I'm a veteran, and my father can go to the 
devil. I can take care of you — we're all to have fine lands 
in the far west given to us — out along the banks of the 
Ohio. 

ESTHER (clapping her hands enthusiastically). 

On the Ohio — my, how interesting, and there'll be bears 
and deer and wolves and Indians to shoot at. Splendid. 

GOULD. 

Oh, that's my brave wilderness girl — a real pioneer. I 
knew you'd like it. But if you are going to the Ohio with 
me, you'll have to treat me better. I'm to be your hus- 
band and your master, mind — 

ESTHER. 

You don't look it. 

GOULD. 

But it says "obey" in the prayer book. 

ESTHER. 

Pooh, I don't care. It takes more than saying "obey" 
to make one do it. The better man in the house is the one 
obeyed, and he doesn't always wear the small clothes. 

GOULD (sadly). 

That's true enough — in our house, for instance. But 
you promised to marry me, and I love you, dear, and when 
Dan'l was dying he said: "Take care of little Esther, and 
be good to her, Gould," and I'm going to try. You see he 
expected it. 

ESTHER (saddened). 

Dear Dan'l. Nobody even thinks of him this glad day. 
He was a dear, brave boy. Washington wrote father a 
lovely letter about him, did you know? Mother couldn't 
bear to come here to-day, since Dan'l wasn't coming. There 
are some things that even two years don't heal. But 
sometimes I think it was best he should die. Dorothy 
would never have married him. She didn't love him, you 
know, and he'd have been so disappointed and unhappy. 

GOULD. 

Hers was the last name on his lips. 



ESTHER. 

Dorothy honestly tried, but she loves the parson, and 
has for years, and now that he's a patriot what should 
part them? 

GOULD. 

What indeed? But being a patriot doesn't seem to 
make you in love with me, Esther. You cared more when I 
was selling garden truck to the British up river. I turned 
for your sake, and I don't believe that Parson Peter did 
what he did for Dorothy. 

ESTHER. 

Don't you dare say that, Gould Lewis. You turned be- 
cause the power of Almighty God moved you in Parson 
Peter's sermon. Wasn't I there? Didn't I hear him o.nd see 
you? It was as if the Angel Gabriel stood before us. or 
that other one with the flaming sword. My, I can feel 
how my spine thrilled and trembled, and the very hair 
rose on my head. Don't you dare to lay your conversion to 
me, Gould Lewis. 

GOULD. 
Oh, well, I thought it would please you. We men never 
can tell what you women are going to do — especially we 
soldier men. 

ESTHER. 
Stuff! I'll wager Parson Peter knows what Dorothy 
is going to "o. 

GOULD. 
Let's go and ask them. 
(Gould and Esther go out as Muhlenberg and Dorothy come on 
at the other side.) 

MUHLENBERG. 
And if I'd been killed, Dorothy? 

DOROTHY. 

I shall never tell you how sorry I would have been. 

MUHLENBERG (smiling, then frowning). 
That may mean much or nothing. 

DOROTHY. 

Really? 

MUHLENBERG (pleadingly). 
Don't trifle, Dorothy. I've waited so long. 
DOROTHY. 

Yes, but you didn't tell me you were going to join our 
army until you announced it publicly, and there's been 
little enough chance even to hear from you since. I should 
have thought you would have wanted me to know first. 

65 



MUHLENBERG. 
I warned you. 

DOROTHY. 

Was that the night you decided? 

MUHLENBERG. 

Yes; when Washington threw that cloak around Na- 
than Baldwin's shoulders, I became a patriot on the in- 
stant. 

DOROTHY. 

So simple a thing. How beautiful — so it was not at all 
for my sake? 

MUHLENBERG (stoutly). 
No; for right's sake. 

DOROTHY. 

I like you better for that. 

MUHLENBERG. 

But how much is better, Dorothy? 

DOROTHY. 

Oh, well enough to make you unhappy with my forked 
tongue. 

MUHLENBERG. 

I took my choice, dear. If I'd enlisted under King 
George I'd have been picked off by your American sharp- 
shooters. Now my foibles will be picked off by a sharp- 
shooter in my own household — one from whom I shall not 
want to escape. But one can't escape wounds in this world 
— the only thing is to choose where we'll have them, and 
from whom. 

DOROTHY. 

I'll try to be meek. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Don't, dear. It would "be so unnatural and you'll only 
make yourself ill and me lonesome. Besides, I'll be ex- 
cused from purgatory in the next world. 

DOROTHY. 

Oh. fie, to pursue that advantage. I see, sir, you love 
our country much more than you do me, or you wouldn't 
talk so. 

MUHLENBERG. 

Yes, just as you love Washington more than you do me. 

DOROTHY. 

Yes, it's just as we love God best, or say we do, but we 
don't act as if we did. Everbody loves Washington best. 

L.cFC. 



MUHLENBERG. 

I shall be proud to take second place. There is no 
greater test of my love. But you're sure you prefer an 
officer's epaulets to a bishop's sleeves? I've been offered a 
place in public life, or I can go back to the church. Which 
shall it be, Dorothy? 

DOROTHY. 

I hate ruffles on a man — it reminds me of our curled 
and perfumed i-oyal governors. Swords to ruffles every 
time, if it rests with me. 

MUHLENBERG. 

So be it — I've no choice so long as you look after the 
sword or the ruffles. 
(Gould and Esther, Mr. and Mrs. Sutton enter.) 

GOULD (Smiling radiantly). 

Shall it be a double wedding, Dolly? 
DOROTHY. 

No, indeed. Every girl has the right to be the center 
of interest at her own wedding — she'll never be again. I 
don't want to share even with Esther. Besides (with 
dignity) Peter and I are much older and Esther must 
be my bridesmaid — you'll have to wait a few years. 

ESTHER. 

And I want Parson Peter to marry us. 

DOROTHY (with dignity). 

I don't know about that, Esther. It's too bad to dis- 
appoint you, but he's thinking of remaining in civil life. 
We've just been discussing it. 

GOULD. 

Well, I swan — you can do anything with him, Doro- 
thy. Only fancy his giving up the church permanently 
for you. I believe he loves you more than he does Amer- 
ica. 

DOROTHY. 

No; not that. That's the one thing he puts above me. 

GOULD (surprised). 
And you stand that, Dorothy? I wouldn't have thought 



it. 



MRS. SUTTON. 

bhe never would from us. 

DOROTHY. 

I glory in it. 



67 



MRS. SUTTON. 

Well, thank Heaven, you g'irls are both to be safely 
married. It's a relief to my mind. 

SUTTON (clasping Dorothy in his arms). 

My dear, brave, little Dorothy — my one daughter. Lord, 
but we'll miss you. 

DOROTHY. 

Your little girl always, father. 

THE CROWD (inside the inn and on the porch clinking 
glasses). 
Huzza for the American States! Huzza for His Etx- 
cellency. General Washington, huzza, huzza! 

CURTAIN. 



1j^ 



